


Rules

by crazycat1895



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bondage, Comfort/Angst, Dom/sub, Graphic Description, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Obedience, Oral Sex, Submission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-22
Updated: 2013-05-31
Packaged: 2017-12-12 16:21:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 26,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/813554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crazycat1895/pseuds/crazycat1895
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He knew that his behaviour had been incorrect. He knew that his misconduct was falling back irretrievably to John and therefor he had to punish him. He also knew that John wasn't going to hurt him any more than was necessary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to HayleyStarr for the support and help. I hope you enjoy it and I'm greatful for comments.

Read the German translation on [ FF.net ](http://www.fanfiction.net/s/8865394/1/Regeln) or [ LJ ](http://crazycat1895.livejournal.com/1869.html)

 

 

Lestrade had called around noon and asked Sherlock and John to have a look at a crime scene. Apparently a suicide, a couple was found in a locked bathroom of their family home. The cause of death was unclear; Lestrade assumed that the man first killed his wife and then himself, an extended suicide, perhaps with poison or tablets? But for some reason he had a weird feeling about it. That's why he had called Sherlock.

 

It's was really odd when he thought about it now, because he hadn't been able to reach Sherlock directly for weeks. His cell phone was either switched off or diverted to John's phone. Lestrade shook his head; he wasn't sure whether he wanted to know what the reason behind this was. At least Sherlock had become a little more sociable since the doctor started accompanying him to the crime scenes, even if he still had a tendency to verbally attack people, anything else was none of his business.

 

Sherlock swirled as usual through the house, then the bathroom and provided a closer look at the dead bodies and the space around; he frowned, checking a few details and then lets John examine the bodies. The Doctor found something on the woman's body, something he couldn't explain, something only Sherlock would understand obviously, which is good, but John didn't draw the right conclusion. Why would he? Sherlock is the Consulting Detective and he's a doctor, and a very good one at that.

 

So far everything was business as usual - and that was good.

 

Then Sherlock started insulting John; Saying that he had once again ignored all relevant matters and was an idiot and so on. But this time, he was turning it on properly, which he hadn't done for a while in such a drastic way - and that was "a bit not good", to be exact, maybe even more than a bit.

 

John said nothing, and instead of standing at his side when Sherlock began he withdrew from the crime scene and waited quietly outside the house without listening to Sherlock's deductions and didn't praise his genius as usual.

 

Lestrade was irritated by John's reaction and had trouble focusing on Sherlock's statements. This had to do with the fact that he noticed how insecure Sherlock had become by John's reaction. Of course he didn't show his insecurity for long and Lestrade already considered whether he might have just been imagining it all.

 

But when Sherlock had finished, he didn't look at John, who was standing with an inscrutable face by the door staring at the sky. You could almost take it for arrogance, but Sherlock's body language said otherwise. Sherlock was acting nervous, almost scared! _Sherlock? Afraid? Of John_ _?_

 

And John? He had been waiting for Sherlock, indeed, but when Sherlock walked out of the house, he turned on his heels and walked toward the road. It's the first time he'd not even said goodbye to Greg, very unusual behaviour. Sherlock followed him without any comment and Lestrade stared behind at the back of the two of them, until their taxi pulled up and drove out of sight. Trouble in Paradise?

 

In the taxi John continued to ignore Sherlock. He didn't speak a word and with a neutral facial expression he stared out of the window. Sherlock was nervous and he rocked slightly back and forth trying to make eye contact with John. He murmured softly "I'm sorry," but John only responded with a sarcastic snort. He still wasn't looking at him. When they arrived back at Baker Street, John left the car without a further glance at Sherlock and disappeared inside. Sherlock sighed, paid the taxi and followed him in hesitantly.

 

He briefly considered just not going inside. He had his wallet with him and with a little luck his credit was even inside it. He could take a room at some hotel until ... But in the end it wouldn't change anything, only postpone the inevitable, he himself had set up the rules. Maybe John would be even angrier if he ran way instead of calming down and he didn't want to risk that. With slumped shoulders, he climbed the stairs.

 

When he finally walked in John was sitting in his chair. He held his old cane in his hand, looking at it absently. He hadn't used it in months, didn't need it any more thanks to Sherlock. Now he was worried. Why had John dug it out again?

 

Oh, of course Sherlock knew why. He wanted the cane. But they never had really used it. Would he be able to take it?

 

Sherlock entered the living room reluctantly, hanging his coat and scarf on the back of the door, where John's jacket was hanging already. He looked at John uneasily, who was still looking at his cane while his mind seemed to be somewhere else. Suddenly he looked up, his eyes narrow, he focused his attention on Sherlock; appraisingly, thoughtfully.

 

Sherlock was still standing next to the closed door, looking down a slight shiver ran through his body. Finally he walked over to John and knelt beside his chair on the floor without looking up. "I'm sorry Sir," he said this time his voice tense only a faint whisper. He was shaking.  
  
Of course John took advantage of every nuance in Sherlock's behaviour, turning his head slowly and lowering his eyes to the dark curls. He still held the cane in his left hand and struck the bottom third on his right with a snap.

 

Sherlock was trembling harder now, but didn't dare say anything. He knew that his behaviour had been wrong. He knew that his behaviour had been incorrect. He knew that his misconduct was falling irretrievably to John and he had to punish him for it. He also knew that John wasn't going to hurt him any more than was necessary. He trusts and loves John completely. Still, he was nervous.

 

Eventually John spoke to him, looking at his cane which still suggested a low pulse. "I was so sure we had discussed it all in detail, that you had understood everything." His voice was quiet, almost sad. Disappointed? But at the last word the cane hit his hand snapping on his palm and his voice became sharp. Sherlock couldn't prevent his flinch at the sound. "I have to punish you. Take off your clothes and then wait." His voice was harsh now and John left the room without acknowledging him any further. He walked to their bedroom while Sherlock obeyed and began to undress.

 

After he had taken off his clothes, he knelt naked on the floor his thighs straight, his head down, his hands hanging down either side of his body and his face turns towards the window, his back to the door.

 

Although he was sure that it would take some time before John came back, he didn't dare to sit on his heels as his knees begin to ache. John wanted him to wait and that meant he will remain in that very position. He knew the rules.

 

Two hours later John came out of the bedroom. He had also taken off his clothes, wearing only red boxer shorts and holding a riding crop in his hand. Sherlock couldn't see him from this position, only when John walked around him he saw that he didn't have the cane with him and was relieved. The fact he was undressed he considered as a good sign, so he thought John wasn't too mad at him anymore.

 

His knees hurt, but he had only waited for two hours - and the riding crop was ok, no, it was good even! That was nothing! He didn't dare to raise his eyes when John swept it over his head, brushing it through his hair, over his cheek, along his jaw line and then down his long slender neck to his collarbone. He shuddered as he felt the end of the riding crop on his left nipple, just stroking, then a fast yet gentle slap hit him with two stronger slaps following.

 

The right side followed with three slaps, each one had a little more force. With the last slap Sherlock gasped, but he didn't wince. The crop passed over his shoulder and down onto his back, stroking his shoulder blades running slowly down his spine, sweat trickling along the line. Then, without any warning three hard blows struck between his shoulder blades, the riding crop moved down again, stopping at the end of his spine just before three hard slaps hit those beautifully shaped buttocks leaving three red stripes.

 

With the last slap Sherlock cock twitched slightly. "I am beginning to think that you're misbehaving on purpose. You like it when I punish you, or if we need to repeat certain lessons, right? What do I do with you? Perhaps the riding crop is not the right tool. Would you like to try something different?" John's voice was almost casual, even a bit flattering. "Maybe you could focus better if I used the cane? It fits comfortably in my hand."

 

Out of nowhere, John suddenly had the cane in his hand. Sherlock began to tremble again; the cane was dangerous, more dangerous than the riding crop, although John could handle it well.

 

"Prepare yourself for three strokes. That will be enough for today."

 

The first solid strike landed on his butt and he gritted his teeth trying not to make a sound. He could use the safeword. He knew that was what John was waiting for, giving him the opportunity, but he said nothing. These were his own rules and he deserved to be punished, he wanted it, so he tried to breathe as quietly as possible and prepared himself for the next stroke. It came quickly and then the third in a row.

 

 

The welts began to burn bright red. Sherlock pinched his eyes shut and grinded his teeth as hard as he could while clenching his jaw. A tear rolled down his cheek, but he didn't make a sound. John looked at him for a long time, thoughtfully wiping the tear away with his thumb and kissing Sherlock gently on the forehead, temples, cheeks and finally on the mouth. Sherlock's face relaxed and he opened his eyes again.

 

John dropped the cane and walked slowly around Sherlock, his left hand caressing his shoulders. A shiver ran down his spine as he enjoyed the feather-light touch of John's fingers against the burning sensation of the welts. His hand glided slowly over the hills of Sherlock's butt and he slid a finger between his cheeks causing him to draw in a sharp breath.

 

He hoped that John would take off his shorts so he could place his lips around John's cock. He wants to kiss and lick and suck his cock. He wanted to kiss and lick and suck on it. Oh God, he was now rock hard and was finding it difficult not to moan aloud, but John still hadn't given him permission to speak, and until then, all vocalizations were prohibited.

 

John now stood in front of him, rubbing his cock against his cheek and neck but it was still covered by a thin layer of cloth.

 

"Would you like to have it? Want to take it in that big, cheeky mouth of yours? Answer me!" With his right hand he stroked through the dark curls and bent Sherlock's head up so that he had to look at him.

 

"Yes please", came from his hoarse throat, his usually bright eyes dark with desire.

 

"What did you say?" John questioned him sternly. Sherlock flinched.

 

"Yes, please, Sir," he whimpered.

 

John's grip in his hair became firmer; it almost hurt, but only almost.

 

"Good." John was appeased. With his left hand he slowly pulled down his pants, his cock jutting out big and hard.

 

"Open up your mouth." He said slowly. Sherlock obeyed, taking John in until his cock was completely in his mouth and down his throat. Sherlock had needed to practice for a long time until he could get his gag reflex under control, but now he could easily absorb John's cock. He closed his lips around the soft yet firm skin and let his tongue revolve.

 

But John was feeling impatient today. He held Sherlock's head with both hands, so that he couldn't move at all. Then he began to fuck his mouth with hard, short bursts, pushing his cock against Sherlock's throat every time. It wasn't easy but Sherlock managed. He wanted to touch himself, he was so hard but when he laid his hand unconsciously on his dick, John swept it away impatiently, "Stop it!"

 

When John finally came it was violent. He let go of Sherlock's head so that he could move away a little to swallow and breathe. Not losing a drop.

 

Eventually John moved aside but Sherlock was still not allowed to touch himself.

 

"No, this is not for you, this is your punishment, and I will not let you come now. Are we clear?"

 

"Yes Sir." It was only a hoarse croak, he was not capable of more with his abused throat, but that didn't matter. It will heal, as always.

 

John pulled Sherlock up from the carpet and held him gently at his waist.

 

"Come on, you've done well, Sherlock, you deserve a reward." He led him into the bedroom and laid him down on the large bed.

 

"Put your arms above your head and leave them there. You'll not move, but you don't have to be quiet ", he instructed Sherlock. Then he crawled to the foot of the bed and started to kiss and suck at Sherlock's toes. After a short while he was rewarded with a throaty moan and he felt himself get hard again.

 

He kissed and fondled Sherlock's feet and lower leg. He spent a little longer at his sensitive hollow behind his knee in order to torment Sherlock with his tongue. Eventually he worked his way further up, caressing and kissing his inner thighs and playing with the dark, slightly curly and scratchy hair, dipping his nose deep in it. He inhaled deeply; he loved the mixture of Sherlock's sweat and pure scent.

 

"Do you know that you smell insanely good?" After he fondled Sherlock's testicles briefly with his soft lips, he lifted up his legs and pressed Sherlock's knees down against his own chest.

 

His lover's tight ring of muscle was now in front of him. His tongue moved slowly around the rosette, Sherlock arching his back up gasping loudly. John licked and sucked now with his tongue and lips around the sensitive opening, thrusting the tip of his tongue and then the whole tongue into Sherlock's anus. Sherlock moaned and gasped during this treatment and became so hard that it almost hurt. Desperately he tried to lie down motionless as John said, but without John's iron grip on his hip it would have been a futile attempt.

 

John's cock was once again ready and after Sherlock's hole had become soft and fully prepared John knelt down lifting Sherlock's hips slightly slowly starting to penetrate him. He moved Sherlock's legs over his shoulders with a loud sigh escaping his lips, "Oh Sherlock, you're so tight, so good."

 

Sherlock, no longer capable of forming coherent sentences, moaned and gasped as John slowly withdrew and then pushes back into him with a deep, vigorous movement. John increased the speed and raised Sherlock's hips slightly higher. Now he met Sherlock's prostate with each of his deep thrusts and Sherlock could only moan incoherent fragments of speech. "Yes .... yeah ... Jo ... John ... you ... yea ... yea ... I ... I ... can't.... John!" Sherlock's arms were still above his head, and he clung to the headboard tightly so that he wasn't tempted to touch himself.

 

Then he heard John's deep, demanding voice, "Come, Sherlock, come for me, untouched, come, now, for me."

 

And Sherlock's body obeyed, as if the words were touching him. He reared up and came as violently as possible. And this sight, this wonderful, writhing body of his lover beneath him made John lose control. He rammed his cock, one last time, deep into Sherlock and his orgasm started to roll over him like a tidal wave. His vision blurred, everything just white noise. Finally he found himself, still twitching and trembling and completely done, on Sherlock's chest.

 

When they both got their breath back, he pulled back gently from Sherlock, taking a towel from the floor, which he had left there earlier and cleaned them with gentle movements. Then he lay down on his back taking Sherlock in his arms. Sherlock curled up to John's chest, hiding his face at his neck.

 

"John, I …..", he wanted to say more, wanted to tell John _how much he loves_ him, how much he _needs_ him, that _he'd be lost_ without him, "John, I …" he wanted to say more, wanted to tell John how much he loves him, how much he needs him, that he'd be lost without him, but his throat closed and he couldn't get out another word. Suddenly he felt desperate; he was afraid that John didn't know how important he was to him. His hands reached for John's face. He looked at him, into these beautiful dark blue eyes. John, seeing his despair tried to convey in just a look that he already knew what Sherlock was trying to say. And Sherlock understood, knowing that he John understood everything even if it was left unsaid.

 

"It's all right, Sherlock ", he said softly. "Everything is fine. It's ok now, we'll talk tomorrow," He caressed and kissed him trying to calm him down eventually succeeding.

 

Curled up amazingly tightly, Sherlock finally fell asleep in John's arms but John lay awake for a long time. Again and again he asked himself how long this could continue, how long will he be able to play this game? And what will happen when Sherlock notices anything? Will he kick him out? Definitely. Oh God, he will lose him, he's sure, one day he will just look at him and know everything, and then he will kick him out and ... and ... and ... His eyes wide open John lay petrified in their bed, unable to think clearly. Finally at dawn he fell into a fitful dreamless sleep.

 

***


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are again; I think there are some people out there who like my story, THANK YOU! And please leave a comment!

 

 

When Sherlock woke up the next morning he was still clinging tightly to John's chest. John lay on his back and was still asleep, his right arm across Sherlock's back.

 

Sherlock tried to stretch a little without disturbing John, but immediately noticed that every movement hurt and that his butt was on fire. He couldn't suppress a soft moan which caused John to move. He looked up with a worried expression at Sherlock.

 

"Morning, Sherlock. Are you ok? I'll take care of the welts in a minute."

 

"I'm fine, I'm just a little stiff." Sherlock warded off John's question, but winced when John's fingers stroked over his lower back.

 

John looked at him sceptically, then he stretched himself out, pressed a little kiss on Sherlock's cheek and got up. "I'll run you a bath and call you when it's ready."

 

He disappeared into the bathroom and Sherlock could hear the water running. He closed his eyes and thought of yesterday, his punishment and his reward afterward and he smiled involuntarily.

 

He was amazed that he could have laid on his back, but his adrenaline level had been probably so high that he had not felt any pain. This had happened to him before and he was glad that John was always so careful; otherwise he surely would have injured himself seriously and frequently.

 

John. He looked tired; perhaps he didn't sleep well? But since they shared the bed he knew he hadn't had any nightmares. He'll deal with it later; first he wanted to take that bath.

 

Slowly he crawled out of bed and moved to the bathroom. After he'd been to the toilet the bath was ready and he got into the tub. At first the warm water burned at his welts and he wasn't sure whether he could sit, but after a short acclimatization he relaxed in the water. John had added Aloe bath oil, and Sherlock enjoyed the scent and the warmth.

 

A few minutes later he brought him a cup of coffee and sat down with his cup on the edge of the tub. "Better now?" he asked between two sips and smiled at him. Sherlock grinned back.

 

"Taking a bath was an excellent idea; I'm actually feeling much better."

 

"Fine, after I'll apply some cream on your butt and then you will eat breakfast. No complaining. You ate almost nothing yesterday and after last night you need something."

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Alright. In fact I am a bit hungry and wouldn't say no to scrambled eggs with ham. That is unless I can't sit on the chair."

 

John gave him an apologetic smile. "Well if that's the case I'll bring it to you in bed, and if you want I'll even feed you." He kissed Sherlock for a very long time, very gently. "But you will eat," he said sternly.  
  
"Yes Sir." Sherlock showed a kind of salute and also grinned.

 

John took the cup from him, brought a washcloth up and squirted some shower gel on it. He dipped it into the water and then in slow, circular movements washed down Sherlock's neck and along his back. Then up again and down the whole wonderful length of his neck, hi collarbones and chest.

 

At first he left his nipples untouched, and he moved the cloth slowly lower, lingering on his navel. He then slid it back up and rubbed it firmly on the right nipple, then the left. Sherlock gasped and arched his back, pushing himself against the hand holding the washcloth. John's hand slowly slid down deeper and washed Sherlock's genitals, then his legs until he reached his toes, of which he washed every single one. Now Sherlock was squirming in the water, his hands clutching the edge of the tub so tightly that his knuckles turned white.

 

"Oh God, John, please, please… ."

 

But John lay the cloth aside, "No, not now, I have planned something else for you."

 

Sherlock gritted his teeth to keep his hands under control. He wanted to touch himself, to gain relief, but as long as John wouldn't allow - no chance. And he didn't want to barter for a penalty again. If he only knew what John was up to?

 

He could deduce every person within seconds, only John could elude his ability again and again, and he had no idea how he did it. Sometimes the thought of not knowing what John was thinking made him feel like he was going mad. It wasn't that he couldn't read John at all. Only here at home when the two were alone and when John told him what he was and was not allowed to do was the time he became unfathomable. 'And that's the appeal, right?' whispered a little voice in his head. 'John is the only person who can surprise you again and again, who never bores you, who you can love, so pull yourself together.'

 

Twenty minutes later, Sherlock was face down on the bed with John treating the welts carefully with a cream that would reduce the pain and sooth the skin. The riding crop had left no significant redness, but the cane had been very memorably.

 

John had been practicing for some time, so he was now sure how hard he could strike without seriously injuring Sherlock. Meanwhile he had trained and experienced enough to decide on the basis of material and strength what would work and what would not. And of course, Sherlock always had to give his OK to new "toys", otherwise they were not allowed. The cane was Sherlock's special request, John didn't want to use it in the beginning; however he couldn't resist Sherlock's request for long, as usual.

 

Sherlock hadn't told him that the cane had a very special meaning to him; John didn't need it any longer because of Sherlock, showing him that he is not useless, that he had brought something good into John's life. The thought of it helped him when he doubted himself.

 

John had placed a soft blanket on the floor beside the bed and pulled Sherlock onto so that he knelt in front of him, while John was sitting on the edge of the bed. He cupped Sherlock's face in his hands.

 

"Do you thinkyou cansit?"

 

Sherlock just nodded, he didn't trust his voice. What was the surprise going to be? John said that he wanted to do something else with him! Why wasn't he doing it now? He didn't want to eat; he didn't need anything, just John. John! He bit his tongue and closed his eyes, trying not to beg. That wouldn't be a good idea. John was so determined; it would be asking for trouble.

 

"Good, then put on your clothes and come into the kitchen. I'll give you 7 minutes, and then I expect you to be at the table." With a quick kiss he disappeared and Sherlock struggled trying not to lose his self-control.

 

John had placed a soft cushion on the hard kitchen chair for Sherlock to sit on, and after some initial pain he was able to get comfortable. When he saw the plate filled with food in front of him he wondered how he was supposed to eat all of it, but after the first bite he realized how hungry he really was. John was also a good cook, though he didn't proof often.

 

Sherlock helped clean up the dishes after the meal. On the one hand John expected it of him and on the other he hoped that he could show him how grateful he was of him. He was a little disappointed when John walked into the living room instead of the bedroom, but who knows?

But John wanted to talk to him; of course it is about the incident at the crime-scene yesterday. "Sherlock, we need to talk about yesterday. And our agreement."

 

Pause.

 

Sherlockwincedslightly. He didn't want to talk about the agreement, it should remain the way it is, he had misbehaved, violated the rules and got his punishment. End of. Everything was fine. But he didn't say a word, because he was worried that he couldn't say it as clearly and simply as it sounded in his head. Speech is a funny thing sometimes; words can transform themselves on the way from the brain to the mouth, in the process turning into something completely different, or just gibberish - or just 'John'.

 

"Sherlock, what's wrong with you? Talk to me."

 

Sherlock remained silent. He sat opposite John in his leather chair, staring a hole into the carpet.

 

"Sherlock, I want you to answer me. If I can't be sure our agreement is still working for you, then nothing more will happen, are we clear?"

 

A visible jerk went through Sherlock at John's words.

 

"Of course the contract is still working. I don't know what you mean; I have fulfilled all my conditions." With narrow lips and cramped hands, his voice cold and aloof, he hid behind his mask; he didn't want John to see that he was afraid. He didn't know why or what he was afraid of so how could he tell John anything that he didn't understand himself?

 

"This" John waved his hand between them, "will only work if you trust me Sherlock. That means that you have to tell me everything, we talked about this before. I realise that something is wrong, but I don't know what it is, you have to tell me about, no matter what it is. I'm responsible for you, you are mine and you will do what I say, so talk to me! Otherwise, you can burn the contract right here and now, put it in the fireplace, I won't cause any trouble. If you don't trust me 100% everything is pointless and just won't work. Think about what you want."

 

Even though his voice is cool and controlled, even sharp in between, it´s not a situation John could handle with ease. He is the dominant part of their relationship; obviously he can't admit that he's afraid that Sherlock really does want to dissolve their agreement. Maybe he just wanted to negotiate?

 

Sherlock was pale now and looked at John with wide eyes.

 

"No, it's nothing, really. Of course I trust you! Please, John, I'll never do anything like that again, I promise you I won't."

 

There was a long pause, and John wondered what he meant by that, when Sherlock finally went on.

 

"It's just so difficult sometimes, especially at crime scenes, when I make my deductions. I feel so …  restricted that I somehow ..... I don't know ....do ... stupid things?" he added quietly and his speak drifted off.

 

Ok, that was something he could work with. It is true, at home or if they are on their own, there are never any problems with Sherlock's obedience, but on the last two cases, there had been several incidents. The first time it was just a triviality, the way he had objected; John had overlooked it generously. But yesterday, the insults etc. they were something else. If their relationship started to impair on Sherlock's work, he had to change something. After all, he loved that big fool and didn't want him to feel bad.

 

"Well, you need more space. That's ok, I think we can add a special point", he said thoughtfully. "But with a few clear guidelines. Is that okay with you?"

 

When Sherlock nodded relieved he opened his laptop in order to add the extra point to the contract. Before he printed the new rules, he presented them to Sherlock.

 

"Read it, to check. If you've missed something, or if you want to change something just say so."

 

Sherlock was a little surprised over how easy it was, but mostly he was just relieved. The extra point said that the unconditional obedience is exposed as it relates to his work. He may contradict and is allowed during his deductions, generally his mental work, etc. (John made a long list of actions during a case) to ignore John so he can focus on the case. However, he is not allowed to offend John (no problem) and the other present people (big problem, especially if Anderson and Donovan are involved).

 

"Perhaps we can change this phrase?" He asked cautiously. "If Anderson talks rubbish again I can't help myself, it just happens", he tried to explain.

 

John couldn't suppress a grin. "You're right; I can't punish you for Anderson's stupidity. But there are only exceptions for him and Donovan, okay? You can curse as much as you like, but direct insults have to stop, otherwise Lestrade won't give you any more cases, because no one wants to work with you. You'll get yourself kicked out if you can't pull yourself together." He changed the paragraph again and this time Sherlock agreed.

 

"Excellent, I'm glad we have clarified that, and now for something completely different. As I mentioned earlier, I have something planned for you. Go to the bedroom and get undressed, then lie down on the bed and wait for me."

 

Just as John's tone changed from 'casual & informal' to 'cool & commanding', Sherlock's body posture changed completely. There was a tingle in his lower abdomen again and he realized that he was hard almost immediately. It was amazing that John could do this to him with just a few words.

 

With a submissive 'Yes' and downcast eyes, he disappeared into the bedroom, while John closed the laptop and grabbed his coat. The sun was shining. First of all he wanted to go for a walk, he needed to think and clear his mind; he needed some air. Sherlock would learn what it meant to be patient.

 

In the late afternoon John returned home and put away the groceries he had bought on the way. He smiled to himself; even with the severest penalties he would not get Sherlock to do the shopping, so why waste time and authority, especially as the dom needs to know his limits. Then he walked into the bedroom to check on Sherlock. He lay naked and curled up into a ball on the bed fast asleep.

 

A tender smile softened John's face, God, how he loved this man. Sometimes he would be completely stunned and couldn't believe that this beautiful, intelligent, gorgeous man had chosen him to be with, the average, and most ordinary of people.

  
And again he wondered how long he could keep being interesting enough for Sherlock, when will he start to get bored? His heart suddenly felt like it was being squeezed in a vice and for a moment he felt as if he was going to choke. But he managed to shake off the frightening thought and quietly moves over to the dresser to take a couple of leather cuffs from a drawer. He looks thoughtfully at them, shivers, and moves to the bed.

 

Sherlock awoke when John ran his fingers gently through the tousled curls. Startled, he opened his eyes.

 

"I'm sorry, John, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to... ."

 

"Shhhh," John reassured him, stroking his hair again, "it's all right. I didn't say that you weren't allowed to sleep."

  
Sherlock relaxed and waited for what John was going to do.

  
  
"How's your backside?" asked John while his fingertips brushed it with a feather light touch. A low hum from Sherlock's chest answered, meaning he was fine.

  
  
"Get up," he began, and Sherlock obeyed.

 

"Hands behind your back."

 

What was he going to do? Sherlock felt soft leather on his wrists, he heard a metallic clinking noise. John checked that the cuffs were tight enough but not cutting into his flesh. Then he placed a leather collar, 2 cm wide and as soft as the handcuffs, around the long, seductive neck closing the buckles.

 

The collar was tight, but didn't strangle him. All around it were metal rings and at the back John attached a chain whose end was hooked to the leather cuffs at Sherlock's wrists. If his hands moved away his waist now then the collar is pulled tight around his neck, interesting. John walked around him and looked at his work. For that moment he was content.

 

Beside the bed was the soft blanket from that morning and John told Sherlock to kneel on it. He loved the sight, which was improved greatly with the addition of the leather cuffs and the collar.

 

After walking around him a couple of times and caressing his shoulders and his neck, he stopped in front of him, Sherlock's face cupped in his hands. He kissed his forehead, his eyes, temples, sharp cheekbones and his jaw down to the chin. Then his lips brushed over his neck, barely touching him, more of a stroke than a kiss.  
  
Finally he reached the collar, playing with the rings that were attached to it, his hands now on his collarbone. Sherlock suppressed a soft moan and gasped, when John briefly pulled on the chain.

 

"Is everything all right?" John assured himself.

 

"Yes."

 

Immediately a hard blow with his palm on Sherlock's ass followed, making Sherlock wince.

 

"Yes, Sir", he added quickly.

 

Oh God, he was so hard now, he wanted him so badly. But he knew that John was going to take his time, he had only just started. And he wanted to be a good boy.

 

Eventually John kissed him on the mouth, first only slightly with his lips closed, then his tongue slid over Sherlock's lips, which opened immediately to welcome him. The kiss became intense, passionate and again Sherlock couldn't control himself, a moan escaped his lips. This was followed by an immediate jolt on the chain, which reminded him that he was to be quiet.

  
  
John took a few steps back, admiring Sherlock's grace, then he sat down on the chair by the window and watched him. Sherlock had learned a lot over the past weeks. In his role as a dom, he is proud of his sub, he can stay on his knees motionless for several hours without being impatient now.

 

Of course the leather straps were a new challenge, Sherlock must pay attention to his hands this time otherwise he could find out that breathing was not as boring as he normally made it out to be. Therefore, John stayed with him the entire time, for safety reasons. But that didn't mean Sherlock would only have a short wait. John had all evening and all night, and he didn't plan on sleeping very much. He turned on the music, Rachmaninoff, and enjoyed the sight that was being offered up in front of him.

 

***

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

Half an hour passed, one hour; Sherlock kneeled motionless, his arms gradually becoming heavy, the unusual posture exhausting him. John saw sweat trickling along Sherlock's temple, then down his neck until it was absorbed by the leather collar, with more sweat running along his spine.

 

That's what John has been waiting for. He took off his shoes and socks, then his pants, unbuttoned his shirt but leaves it hanging loose. He slowly begins to caress himself, covers his dick with one hand and massages it with long, smooth movements. The other hand fondling his balls.

 

"Look at me!"

 

Sherlock raised his head, eyes dark with desire.

 

John got up and walked over to him; his thumb caressed Sherlock's lower lip then pressed into his mouth.

 

"Suck!"

 

Sherlock closed his lips around John's finger, sucking eagerly and working it with his talented tongue. Oh, he's so good, so incredibly good. John pulled his thumb back and put a hand on the back of his neck. He kissed him long and passionately, and then he straightened up again, so that Sherlock had his mouth right on John's cock. He kept him steady with the hand on his head and one on his shoulder, stabilizing him so he won't lose his balance with his hands tied up behind his back.

Sherlock took him into his mouth, his entire length, moving his head back and forth, working with his tongue and lips. He started sucking very gently, and then sucked harder. He ran his tongue along the shaft to the head, taking it gently between his teeth and sucking again. John gasped and moaned, he tried not to push forward too much, but Sherlock moved his head in sync with him, taking him in completely. John came vigorously with a suppressed cry and Sherlock swallowed every drop eagerly. He continued to suck until John finally stepped back.

 

He breathed heavily and his legs trembled as he kneeled down behind Sherlock to free his hands. Having removed the cuffs and put them aside, he kissed Sherlock's neck, fixing the thin metal chain to the front of the collar. He stroked his shoulders, his shoulder blades, and followed his fingers with his mouth, kissing and licking his way along his spine, while Sherlock shook in desire he desperately attempted not to moan aloud so he bit his fist. John embraced him from behind, nipping at his ear.

 

"You're beautiful and you take my breath away", he whispered." Go lay down on the bed, on your back."

 

Once he had lain down in the middle of the bed, John took his hands and tied them to the headboard with a new set of leather cuffs that Sherlock hadn't noticed before. When he'd done Sherlock's arms were spread wide. John took his right foot and kissed his toes. Then he tied Sherlock's ankle, also using leather cuffs, to the bottom of the bed. He did the same with his left foot, and when he was finished Sherlock was tied up with outstretched arms and legs to the bed. Then the chain for the collar was also fixed to the bed so that he couldn't move in any way.

 

"I'm going to kiss every inch of your adorable body", said John to him. "You are not allowed to talk, but I want to hear you still, moan loud, understood?" Sherlock looked at him with dark eyes and opened his mouth; he nodded, trembling with arousal. "Yes Sir."

 

John began with Sherlock's forehead, stroking his hair to the side, kissing his temple, then the sensitive spot behind Sherlock's ear, nibbling, licking and sucking his neck, his jaw, along his neck he stayed at one of his favourite places, Sherlock's collarbone, and left a ravishing love bite while Sherlock moaned loudly and arched toward him, as far as he could.

 

The doctor made good progress down Sherlock's body, licking over the right nipple, gently sucking it, blowing at it, as Sherlock wriggled panting beneath him. He moved his tongue further, circling his navel, slipped deeper and deeper, licking and kissing along the ledge, then he nibbled on Sherlock's thigh. Only Sherlock's cock and balls have been left untouched. When he arrived at his toes Sherlock was squirming and moaning helplessly in his bonds.

 

He was now so hard that it hurt. John saw Sherlock's cock twitching, he was so ready. John moved his mouth upwards, avoiding his cock again, and eventually he took Sherlock's left nipple between his teeth. He bites firmly, not so hard that it's bleeding, but so that it will leave a mark. He also rubbed the other nipple with his fingers.

 

Sherlock cried out, his whole body tightened and in an erratic movement he arched his back and his hips as he came hard and completely untouched. He trembled uncontrollably while John loosened the bonds, cleaned him up and took him in his arms until he had calmed down.

 

"You can talk now", he muttered. "How did you like that?"

 

Another shiver ran through Sherlock's body.

 

" _That_ was incredible. _You_ are amazing!" He leaned his head back a little so that he could watch John. "I've never experienced anything like that."

 

"That was the whole point." John smiled and kissed him.

 

The slow and relaxed kisses started to become quicker and more passionate as they used their tongues and teeth.

 

"I see you still have energy for another round", eventually John gasped, nailing Sherlock down to the mattress with both hands and his whole body.

 

"I'm all yours. Use me as you please," Sherlock had to gasp for air, but his eyes were again (or still? John makes a mental note to pay more attention), dark with desire, with huge pupils.

 

"That's good. Sit up and hold your arms straight out in front of you."

 

Somehow John had managed to leave the wrist cuffs nearby and unnoticed so that he could easily get them now. With a few quick movements he tied Sherlock's hands, this time in front of his torso. He took the chain which was still dangling by his collar, and fixed the end to the handcuffs. He pulled his hands higher and higher, so that in the end the chain was only about 20 cm away from his face.

 

"Turn around, get on your knees and forearms."

 

Because of the chain he was forced to hold his head very low, which was not really comfortable. But this position not only looked absolutely awesome. John knew that Sherlock would enjoy the following fuck much more because of the optimal angle. He put some lube on his hand and rubbed his palms together to warm it, then he placed one hand on Sherlock's cock and glided forward with his fingers from the other hand to his narrow opening, penetrating with the first finger to prepare and relax him.

 

By the time he pushed the third finger in, Sherlock had become a begging, quivering mass, no longer able to control his speech. That's how John liked him best, reduced to the pure desire and pleasure, without the control of that brilliant brain of his.

 

He kneeled behind him and pushed into him slowly, waiting for a moment, so that Sherlock could get used to the sensation. However, Sherlock wasn't patient and whined loudly, trying to push his ass backwards. But he didn't succeed because John held him in an iron grip.

 

"Please please please please please please. Jooooooooooohhhhhhhhhhnnnnnn." That's all he managed, but it was enough to make John recognise his wish. In response he got two quick strikes on his backside.

 

"I do not remember allowing you to talk ", John snapped at him coldly.

 

Sherlock froze, oh shit.

 

"I wonder if I should allow you to come at all."

 

Sherlock did not dare to move, not even breathe.

 

At last John redeemed him, he fucked him hard and fast, met his prostate with each thrust, while Sherlock tried to suppress incoherent sounds. Then John grabed Sherlock's cock and moved his hand in rhythm with his hips.

 

"Now you are allowed to talk."

 

No longer able to do so, he created an incoherent string of: "Yes ... Yes ... Yes ... Yes..., Ssssssssiiiiiirrrrrrr.. ."

 

John growled, "You're mine, only mine. Never forget that. Come, now, come for me, now!"

 

As if he had been waiting for this signal his whole body tensed before exploding in a huge orgasm. Sherlock's head was blank except for one word: "John! John! John! John! John!" He didn't even notice that he was screaming aloud. John followed him only seconds later.

 

He pushed a few more times before he collapsed exhausted on Sherlock's back. Sherlock tried to turn on his side under him without any success because of his cuffed hands.

 

"John, can you please … "

 

"Oh, sure."

 

John slipped off of him, so that they lay side by side. Then he turned Sherlock and put their foreheads together. Sherlock's hands were still tied up, his eyes closed and he tried to calm his breathing. John brushed the hair off his face; he ran his fingers through his curls and over his cheeks. As he stroked over his lips, Sherlock's eyes snapped open. His lips opened slightly and reached for John's fingers, kissing them tenderly.

 

"Are you alright?" John asked him.

 

"I'm well," replied the warm baritone.

 

John kissed him tenderly and then loosened the cuffs and the collar. After they were both cleaned with a soft towel he took Sherlock in his arms and they snuggled into the pillows.

 

John's thoughts slowly drifted away and he was almost asleep when Sherlock suddenly whispered, "You've never... tied me up before... with my arms and legs ... at the same time ..... "

 

"You said you like it", John replied hesitantly. 

 

"Yes, yes," Sherlock responded hastily, "I liked it, very much."

 

He was glad John couldn't see how his face was reddening in the now dark room. However, he forgot that his face was on John's chest and he therefore felt exactly how hot his cheeks were. John was always amazed that Sherlock's observations seemed to have a blind spot, at least when it came to emotions and their relationship.

 

He smiled and kissed Sherlock's head. "And? What about then?"

 

"I don't know exactly, but ... the feeling of being completely at your mercy ..." he hesitated, searching for the right words.

 

John held his breath. Did he go too far? Handcuffs and shackles they'd used before, but he'd never strapped him to the bed and certainly not by his hands and feet simultaneously. And the collar was a new addition too. Was it too much?

 

"... it was so exciting," continued Sherlock, "Just the thought of how helpless I was, that you could do anything to me, whatever you wanted ..." A shiver ran through his body and he snuggled even closer to John, if that was even possible. "Oh God, I think I'm hard again," he added, rubbing his hips on Johns lap and kissing his chest.

 

John embraced Sherlock, he was relieved. "You're insatiable today," he smiled amazed.

 

The endurance training seemed to have worked gradually. Sherlock fumbled in John's chest hair, kissed his collarbones, then he drew up on his elbow and his lips moved up John's neck and chin, until he had reached his lips. Then he kissed his mouth, licking the tip of his tongue along John's bottom lip, until he opened his mouth to welcome him. A deep, slow kiss followed, which became more pressing from Sherlock's side. John pushed him back gently.

 

"What do you want?" He asked with narrowed eyes. Sherlock looked down; the tips of his ears turned red.

 

"I want you to ride me", his throat was rough. "Tie me up and ride me. Please!" He didn't dare to look at John.

 

This was apparently the day for new things, because never before had he dared to express his wishes this way. Nothing happened, for several minutes there was absolute silence and his nerves were strained to the point of tearing. He wondered feverishly whether he may have forgotten a point in their agreement. Was he allowed to utter such a request at all? He had become so nervous that he could hardly think; he started to sweat. Then he felt a hand on his chin, John lifted his head, until he had to look at him.

 

"So you want to be ridden. I'm sure you know that is not so simple."

 

A statement, not a question. So there was a point to the contract, but which one? He just couldn't think properly, it was all blank. He tried to find something in his mind palace where he had saved all points of their agreement he was sure. But he couldn't even find the entrance, let alone a memory. _Anything_ _! Nothing!_ Only a white void. He stared into John's eyes like a rabbit staring at the snake, he was completely hypnotized. Eventually John redeemed him and broke the silence.

 

"You know, if you have a request, I get a free wish."

 

His voice was deep now, lurking, like a cat just before a fatal attack. Sherlock trembled but kept his gaze and managed to nod.

 

Johns fatigue had disappeared, Sherlock really surprises him sometimes. He has not dared to hope that Sherlock would like the fixation so much, but of course he was delighted, he had worked up to that for some time.

 

So this was an opportunity to try out the nipple clamps. The thought occurred to him after Sherlock's intense reaction to the biting. With a swift movement he turned Sherlock so that he lay flat on his back now. John straddled over him, pinning his hands over his head to the mattress.

 

"All right," he started lasciviously, "I'm going to tie your hands to the headboard now ", his hands sliding from Sherlock's wrists to his chest, "then I'm going to tie your feet to the bottom of the bed", his hands moved to his navel and again up to Sherlock's nipples, " then I'm going to fasten clamps to your nipples, only one on each side at first, maybe two or three later." With each number he gently pinched each nipple and Sherlock flinched every time.

 

Absolutely adorable, John realised. He licked his nipples and enjoyed the spectacle that was offered to him. Sherlock was already hard again and bit his lower lip to stop himself moaning to loudly. John grinned.

 

"You don't have to be quiet this time, if it's too difficult."

 

After John had tied his hands and feet back to the bed, he asked Sherlock again, "Are you sure that you agree with this?"

 

"Yes, sir, quite sure," he answered in a hoarse gasp.

 

"OK, what's your safe word?"

 

Sherlock looked a bit confused. Why was he asking that now?

 

"Sherlock, your safe word!" John asked sternly.

 

"Blanket", he replied obediently.

 

"Good. I just want to make sure you haven't forgotten, are we clear?" Again the strict, cool voice of John.

 

Sherlock nodded, "Yes, sir." Oh my God, what was he going to do to him?

 

John turned some music on, Rachmaninoff again, and Sherlock knew that this game would last longer.

 

The doctor has a peacock feather in his hand now and he strokes Sherlock's body with it. Starting at the tied wrists, down his arms, he pays attention not to tickle Sherlock that would be really counter productive. Along his long beautiful throat, deeper and deeper, missing his nipples as well as his genitals he takes a lot of time. Sherlock is still rock hard and shrugs his hips.

 

John turned to his chest now, licking his nipples gently at first, then blowing at them and sucking firmly after a while, he nibbled a bit and finally he pinched them with his thumb and index finger. Sherlock groaned and winced slightly. Out of nowhere John suddenly had the clamps in his hand, and just as suddenly he fixed one on each nipple and Sherlock yelped startled.

 

The pain was not entirely unexpected but new, and for a moment it seemed to be terribly, but John continued the caresses, kissed his stomach, his hands were on Sherlock's cock now, which was also startled and needed a little encouragement. And after a while the pain was still there, but it was bearable now, and began to intensify the other sensations.

 

John had warmed some lube between his palms and now one hand moved to Sherlock's balls and further to his narrow, hot hole. He let a finger slide inside him, then two, and Sherlock squirmed in rhythm, enjoying the intensity of the emotions, the lust, the pain. After a few minutes John replaced his fingers with a butt plug, which he inserted slowly, until it was tight and deep inside Sherlock. Sherlock blurted out a loud, throaty moan, twitched his hips and John decided he wouldn't let him wait any longer.

 

Having inserted the anal plug to Sherlock, he had prepared himself, so that he now straddled Sherlock with a flowing movement and absorbed his cock. For a moment he didn't move so he could get used to the feeling. Then he pulled his hips up in slow circular movements, getting faster, raising and lowering his hips in a steady rhythm.

 

Sherlock moaned and gasped John's name and John realised that he wouldn't last much longer. He took his own cock in his hand and massaged it in the same rhythm as he rode Sherlock. When he detected that Sherlock was close, he flicked at the clamps with the other hand and the additional pain stimulus sent Sherlock, shouting John's name, over the edge. At the same moment John was also at the edge. He groaned Sherlock's name, threw his head back and climaxed onto Sherlock's belly. He rode him until the last wave had rolled over both of them and then he collapsed onto Sherlock, rolling on his side. Thus, both side by side tried to catch their breath.

 

John took the clamps from Sherlock, removed the butt plug and loosened the fetters, then he cleaned them both with a soft cloth. He kissed his chest, his shoulders, his long throat and finally his face, his mouth.

 

"Are you alright?" he asked gently.

 

"Oh yeah, that was ... unexpected, but good," Sherlock responded after he had thought for a moment.

 

"That's good. Turn to your side," said John and kissed him again.

 

Sherlock obeyed and John, who was now behind him, took him tenderly in his arms and embraced him tightly, Sherlock cuddled up to his body, feeling safe and protected.

 

"Sleep now." John gently caressed his hair.

 

"Good night, John."

 

"Good night, Sherlock."

 

***

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

 

The next morning Sherlock woke up to the vibration alert from John's mobile. It was on John's bedside table humming. Carefully, he reached over his still sleeping boyfriend to look at the display. Four missed calls, two text messages. It appeared as if they hadn't heard it last night, this made Sherlock grin. He read the last text message, it was from Mycroft. Frowning, he opened it.

\- WHY HAS SHERLOCK NOT BEEN AVAILABLE FOR DAYS, WHAT IS GOING ON

THERE, DR WATSON? DON'T MAKE ME ORDER YOU! MH -

For days? John hadn't mentioned anything. He looked at the second message, it was from yesterday but the content was similar to the other message. The calls were also from Mycroft. Mmmm, usually he switched off his mobile since he and John were together. Even if they hadn't mentioned this point in their agreement he thought that John liked it better if he wasn't directly reachable. Of course he can turn on his mobile whenever he wanted to but until now he didn't feel the need.

He wouldn't have answered any messages from his inquisitive brother anyway. The Irritating factor of the message was the threat of 'Don't make me order you'. Had he missed something or was Mycroft's response just once again an extreme over reaction?

John stirred and blinked up at him sleepy.

"Morning Sherlock. What's going on?"

He saW Sherlock frowning and drew up on his elbows to have a better look at him. Then his gaze drifted to the phone in Sherlock's hand.

"A new case?"

Sherlock looked at him with narrow eyes, trying to deduce him. Definitely not a guilty conscience, so he hadn't withheld anything on purpose.

"No, but a few irritating messages from Mycroft. Why didn't you tell me that he had tried to reach me?" John slumped back into his pillows.

"Because you told me that I should ignore him. If it was something serious, he would call anyway."

"He has called a couple of times."

John's eyebrows rose in surprise. "When? I didn't hear anything."

"Obviously, you turned off the sound and left it on vibrate. But I doubt that we would have answered last night, even if we'd heard it ringing", the corner of his mouth twitched up with amusement.

"And? Want to call him back? Otherwise he will probably turn up on our doorstep", John asked yawning.

At the very moment they heard something in the kitchen - the kettle. Sharing an annoyed look with Sherlock, John jumped out of bed; speak of the devil and he shall appear.

"Put your clothes on, Mycroft will not leave until you have talked to him, I'm sure."

"Yes Sir!" Sherlock shouted aloud and salutes cross-legged. John rolled his eyes.

"You know that he's listening. What exactly do you want him to think?"

An innocent smile that couldn't fool him, of course, covered Sherlock's face.

"I think he knows most of the details anyway. I'm guessing he's here because of it."

John stared at him dumbfounded. "You ... you ... think he knows about us ...?" All color drained from his face.

Sherlock got up and cupped John's face with his hands. "I don't care, why should you care about it? It doesn't matter what Mycroft thinks."

"But do you really think he will be ok with this?" John asked skeptically.

"You'd better watch out, he might even want to participate. He's a member of some very exclusive private clubs, you'd be amazed."

John stared at him with wide eyes. Mycroft-I-am-as-stiff-as-my-umbrella-Holmes?

"Maybe we should join him one day? I guess it would be an interesting experience", Sherlock pondered, while a stunned John tried to get rid of the images that had appeared in his head.

Three minutes later John left the bedroom, and not even Mycroft could see through the expressionless mask that he was showing. Sherlock, who followed only a minute later, was amazed every time he saw how much John could control himself. It had taken some time before he was this good at it, but now he could switch from one to the other in seconds, Sherlock had taken to calling it 'soldier mode'.

A shiver ran down his back, his body reacting all by itself to the way John was now holding himself, the way he looked at Mycroft, the way he talked to him. There was nothing left on his face from the shock and disbelief that had been written all over it only minutes before, except that he was still a little pale.

With narrow eyes he regarded Mycroft now.

"You still haven't said why you're here. It's hardly the longing for a cup of tea ", John spoke while Mycroft poured the tea he made into three cups.

Now they were standing with their cups in the kitchen, an uncomfortable silence spread throughout the room. Eventually John sighed."Ok, let's go to the living room", he preceded into the other room and sat down in his chair.

Mycroft followed him and with a "May I?" he took a seat in Sherlock's armchair, opposite John.

Sherlock looked at John, who sent him with a glance to the sofa. He would have preferred kneeling down on the carpet next to John, where John could have fondled his hair; he loved the feeling of John's hands in his hair. Again it sent shivers down his spine and he felt a tingling sensation in his gut. He sat down on the sofa as John wanted and lowered his eyes.

Mycroft's sharp gaze flitted back and forth between the two.

"Sherlock, what's going on?" His tone now frosty and sharp, he couldn't understand the behaviour of his otherwise insubordinate little brother, and it made him nervous.

Sherlock's glance jumped back to John first, who nodded almost imperceptibly without looking at him.

"What do you mean? That I ignore your calls and texts? This shouldn't confuse you, right? I hardly ever reply to you. Furthermore, we were busy." His tone was casual, almost dismissive, as usual. It just didn't fit.

Again silence filled the room. John tilted his head to one side and eyed Mycroft thoughtfully.

"You're worried about him ", he noted."Why? Do you really think that he is being forced into doing anything that he doesn't want to do?"

Mycroft glanced back at Sherlock, who gave him an astonished gaze, and then he looked John straight in the eyes.

"To be honest I don't know what I should believe. I merely noticed that something important has changed between you two in the last few weeks, and I'm not sure what I should think."

"John socializes me ", Sherlock grinned." Lestrade is, as far as I can tell, quite taken with it. And I can assure you that John doesn't do anything, which I do not agree to."

"And your mobile?" Mycroft continued.

"I have forwarded the incoming calls to John's phone, because usually he answers anyway. And instead of searching for mine all the time, we can use his. Problem?" Sherlock drew up a questioning eyebrow.

Mycroft mirrored the gesture and looked into his eyes. Once again, between the unequal brother's, played out a non-verbal conversation, John watched in amazement. In the end, he didn't know what happened between them, but Mycroft rose with an elegant swing of his umbrella.

"Well, thank you for the tea. Gentlemen, see you next time" He was out of the room and shortly afterwards they heard the front door slam shut.

With just a few steps Sherlock was at John's chair kneeling in front of him, putting his head in John's lap looking at him pleadingly. He returned the smile and caressed his cheek, then moved his hand into the tight curls fondling him like a cat, to which Sherlock responded with a comforting, deep sound, which can only be described as a purr.

He rubbed his face against John's thigh, pushing his nose slowly upward until it reached the growing bulge in John's pants. John groaned softly, he pushed his hips a little lower and opened his knees, an unambiguous signal for Sherlock that he may continue.

He slid between Johns legs and caressed his lap now with his mouth and nose, his hands glided along John's legs, pushing higher and higher, until he reached his belt and opened it with skillful fingers. With his mouth, he pulled down the zipper and buried his nose in the open trousers. With a loud gasp John arched his back, then he raised his hips so that Sherlock could pull down his pants and boxer shorts.

Sherlock's hands groped at John's jumper, pushing it up and fondling his muscular torso. He felt how much he had changed. Since John had started going to the gym regularly, his muscles had become more defined and solid. He himself had also become more muscular, as he accompanied John, even if in the beginning it was not entirely voluntarily. But he soon realised that as John's sub he needed the strength and endurance, and without the sports program he surely wouldn't make the 'John-program'.

His lips and tongue were working slowly upward from the shaft until he finally took John's entire length in his mouth. A hoarse moan escaped from John's throat and his hand grasped firmly into the dark curls.

"Oh yes…. that's good ….. yes, yes….. go on …. yes ….. oh God …. Sherlock ….. yes ….. harder ….. Sherlock …. aaaaahhhhhh!"

Sherlock sucked strongly, letting revolve his tongue until John finally spilled, with a stifled cry, into his mouth.

John pulled him up and kissed him passionately.

"You're really wonderful", he murmured into his ear as he nibbled at it.

"And you were just unbeatable when Mycroft was here", Sherlock returned between two kisses. "You've really out done him."

"Really? I wasn't quite sure if he was content with it." He pushed Sherlock back so that he could watch him. "It turned you on", he said with a thoughtful smile.

"Oh yeah, you can bet on it." Sherlock's hands caressed John's back while he nestled against him again; he kissed and nibbled at his neck gently.

With his smile fading John reached for Sherlock's hair and pulled his head back so that he could observe him closely, but this time he wasn't so gentle, his glance was now lurking.

Sherlock felt John's whole posture change. He couldn't say exactly what it was but he knew immediately that the cuddling was over. His posture changed in reply, turning submissive and passive. He was hoping he had not upset John, although he didn't know how he could have. Sometimes he was clumsy and didn't even notice what he was doing was something stupid that would make John angry, until it is too late. But everything had been all right until this moment, or had he said something...? His gaze turned uncertain, flickering back and forth between John's eyes and his mouth.

John enjoyed Sherlock's glances, the power that he held on this beautiful, fabulous, gorgeous man he loved more than anything, while simultaneously he felt uncomfortable, almost guilty even but he was unsure why. And for the hundred thousandth time he wondered how he'd deserved this, and how long it would take Sherlock to deduce him and to know everything.

John gritted his teeth and closed his eyes briefly, to not show his feelings, his fear. Sherlock accepted him because he was the strong and dominant part when they had sex. Just as long as he played his part well he was interesting enough for this man. And he wanted to stay interesting for Sherlock Holmes as long as possible. It was not what he really wanted, but it was all he could get. He could handle it - yes, it was ok that for Sherlock it was only about the sex. After all, it was sex with him.

He needed a moment to collect himself and calm down, so he shouted at Sherlock, "Go, get undressed and wait for me in the bedroom, on your knees!"

John pushed him off his lap and turned his head away; he didn't want to meet the anxious, questioning look in Sherlock's eyes. In a moment of desperation and panic he buried his face in his hands once Sherlock is gone. He didn't know what to do.

In the bedroom Sherlock knelt in front of the bed, his head down, waiting.

But this time he didn't feel tingles, he didn't ask what John is going to do; this time a tear trickles from his cheek as if an invisible brace had caught him around his chest holding him tightly, but it wasn't a pleasant pain, it was a desperate, sad pain that threatened to tear him apart. He didn't know what he had done wrong, but it must have been something drastic, with John acting this way. He didn't want John to be angry with him; he wanted to make him happy. And this, their game, seemed to please him, or had he missed something? Maybe he just has to try harder. Why was it so difficult for him to read John, to deduce him?

He winced when John suddenly appeared behind him and put a hand on his shoulder.

"You all right?" he asked concerned, but Sherlock merely nodded.

John sat on the edge of the bed. Sherlock saw that he was dressed again and wondered what that meant, when John covered his cheek gently with one hand and raised his head. With his thumb he followed the tear tracks in Sherlock's face, looking at him sadly.

"Why are you crying?" he asked softly. "You did nothing wrong. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have yelled at you."

He took Sherlock's face in his hands, leaning forwards so their foreheads were together, and closed his eyes. After a while he bent over and held him in his arms. Then he pulled Sherlock up and onto the bed where the two of them lay intertwined. John fidgeted briefly when he pulled the blanket over Sherlock's naked body.

The strain of the last few days was noticeable, both were mentally exhausted, and Mycroft's visit had not helped to ease the tension. Sherlock clung tightly to John, he realised that he loses his poise, panic captured him and he couldn't figure out why.

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to distract himself and to calm himself using by the periodic table, identifying the chemical elements, but it didn't work. Everywhere between the letters and digits appeared a word that seemed to fill his thoughts, his mind, his whole being: JOHN … JOHN … JOHN.

He began to tremble, without realising it, hearing nothing, seeing nothing, now he really was having a panic attack. John was familiar with these things; when he had returned from Afghanistan he had extreme panic attacks, but what was wrong with Sherlock? Why now? What's going on in that brilliant brain of his?

John spoke softly to him, holding him quite firmly and stroking his back reassuringly until the shaking subsided and Sherlock began to cry, without even noticing. His eyes still closed and his head now sheltered at John's throat, who caressed his curls gently with his fingertips.

And while Sherlock gradually calmed down and fell asleep in his arms, John lay there with his eyes wide open, from which hot tears had started flowing. He was done; he simply couldn't go on any longer. If this was Sherlock's reaction to him, they had to talk about it and they had to stop these games. But then he will lose Sherlock. Or perhaps he had already? What should he do?

Around noon Sherlock awoke and it took a while to realise why he was laying naked in John's arms, who was fully dressed, and why John's jumper was so unpleasantly damp at neck and shoulder, where his head was lying.

Carefully he pushed back to view John without waking him up. He was sleeping, but he didn't seem relaxed, rather completely exhausted and drained. John had been crying; Sherlock could see the traces left behind by the tears. If only he knew how he could banish the tears from John's face. He would give anything for it.

He noted John waking up, closing his eyes he pretended to still be sleeping; John wouldn't want him to see that he had been crying. He gave him the opportunity to get up first and go to the bathroom.

Being alone in the bed made him feel infinitely lonely. Somehow everything had gotten out of control and he had no idea why and how he could change things. Until Mycroft had visited everything seemed all right, at least he thought it had. Were there already cracks in their relationship and he just hadn't noticed or even deliberately ignored?

John came out of the bathroom; he had taken a shower and a shave which made him feel better. He would prefer to forget his little break down from early that morning, but he didn't know if ignoring it was such a good idea. He decided to go into the kitchen and make some breakfast. Both of them had only a cup of tea with Mycroft this morning.

A short time later he heard Sherlock showering. John was confused; why had Sherlock cried? Surely his yelling had not been upsetting to this degree. Yes, he screwed things up, he admitted to himself. But it wasn't all that bad, he had apologized but Sherlock's panic attack came right after. Nothing fitted together.

Eventually Sherlock came out, wearing his blue dressing gown and pajama pants, into the kitchen. John couldn't help himself, he wrapped his arms around Sherlock and kissed him; he looked so outrageously good with his wet tousled hair and that half-open dressing gown.

"Hello, my love." He didn't use pet names very often, mostly he saved them for Sherlock, just ridiculous, but he wanted to lighten the atmosphere somehow. "Hungry?"

Sherlock grinned involuntarily. "Ravenous, you always seem to know what I need long before I do."

A strange look crept on to John's face when he smiled at Sherlock as he poured the coffee and heaped scrambled eggs and toast onto his plate. Something was entirely wrong. Sherlock frowned, he must figure out what it is.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading my story. I hope you enjoy this chapter as well, let me know.

 

Before he could dig deeper John's phone rung, it was Lestrade. There was another dead couple; the circumstances seemed to be similar to the supposed suicide from a few days ago.

 

So far there had only been a phone call from a neighbour who had seen the two through a window, lying on the floor. The neighbour wondered what they were doing, when a masked man with a gun closed the curtains. Whereupon he ran away and called the police. Lestrade was on his way.

 

Sherlock swore, he had told Lestrade, but he wouldn't listen to him, not even a single word.

 

Immediately they pulled on their clothes and made their way to the crime scene. The murder had happened quite recently. During the taxi ride Sherlock explained the connections between the cases, because John hadn't been present for his first deduction. John asked some questions, a few of them not bad by Sherlock's standards, and he even gave Sherlock some ideas he could work with.

 

But his thoughts drifted off again and again; the last few days had been nerve-wracking. John was also remarkably quiet

 

When they arrive at the victim's house something seemed off. He could see the caution tape, Lestrade's car, the car of the forensic team and even an ambulance, everything as usual, but something was wrong. What was it? John and Sherlock got out of the car, John paid the driver and at that moment Sherlock realised what was missing: the people. There was not a single police officer around the outside of the house, no Anderson, no Sally, no one.

 

The warning shout of Lestrade, who was hiding behind a low wall, came too late. Sherlock saw the muzzle flash of a gun from the corner of his eye. John was still standing with his back to the house while he had paid the taxi driver. Sherlock had no time for warning; all he could do was react on instinct. So he dived forward slamming John down onto the pavement.

 

Somehow he managed to get them both onto the sidewalk, but he couldn't move. John lay beneath him, had he been fast enough? Was John hurt? By the way he was cursing he must have been.

 

Sherlock tried to raise his head, he wanted to tell John why he had thrown him to the ground, that it wasn't a stupid joke, but it didn't work. He could hear John shouting, yelling his name again and again, but why? He was still here, and he didn't feel like he was going somewhere else.

 

It started to get dark, funny; it was only lunchtime. He was so tired .... but John wouldn't let him sleep, he cried his name and pressed at his side. There was a loud bang in his ears and John screamed.

 

Then all hell broke loose, but at this point Sherlock was no longer able to hear anything.

 

 

John sat on a more or less uncomfortable chair in the hospital; the only sound was coming from the monitoring equipment. Thanks to Mycroft, Sherlock was immediately taken to one of the best private hospitals in London and got an immediate treatment, and thanks to John and his fast reaction they still had someone to treat. He kept replying the shooting in his head over and over.

 

\----------

 

_He had just paid for the taxi when he heard Lestrade's warning, and before he could do anything Sherlock had already thrown him to the ground. The bullet, which should have hit John, met Sherlock. The wound was not even that large, but it must have hit a major artery, he had lost so much blood. When John finally managed to move Sherlock aside so that he could see what was wrong with him, Sherlock had already lost consciousness._

_John caught a grazing shot on his arm, but it wasn't that bad. He frantically looked for the wound on Sherlock's body, and when he finally found it, he pressed hard onto it as best he could in order to slow the loss of blood. He didn't need to think about what to do, it was what he had learned in Afghanistan and he had done it often enough. It was probably his skill to concentrate fully on his job as a doctor which had saved Sherlock's life._

_He noticed nothing of the shooting which took place while he attended to Sherlock. Lestrade stormed the house after the first shot and the villain died in a hail of bullets. Apparently he had planned exactly this after he had been discovered at the house by the police._

_Fortunately there was an ambulance on site, and somehow they managed to separate John from Sherlock, so they could continue the care of Sherlock. John's wound was also treated and both were taken to the hospital._

_There was a little incident when they tried to take John away in another ambulance separate from Sherlock, but after Lestrade had intervened, John was allowed to go with Sherlock. How Mycroft had received knowledge about the case and managed to arrange the transport to the private hospital so quickly will probably remain a mystery forever, but John was grateful._

_John's wound was really just a graze; he could be treated on outpatient basis while they brought Sherlock to surgery. The high blood loss was the biggest problem, an artery had been torn by the bullet and the surgeons had trouble in stabilizing his circulatory, there were moments where he almost didn't make it._

_After his arm was patched up, John waited outside the surgery room, after a while Mycroft joined him, a little later Lestrade did too. They tried to talk to him, but he barely noticed, just sat there and stared at the surgery door. One single thought dominated his mind, 'Please be alive, Sherlock! Please, Sherlock, you have to live! Be alive, Sherlock, please!' Like a mantra, the words went round and round in his head. He couldn't think of anything else._

_At some point later the doors opened (... after one hour? ... after three hours? ... he had lost track of time completely), and a doctor came out, taking off the bloody surgical gown. John froze  -   Sherlock's blood. His gaze fell onto his own hands; they were still smeared with Sherlock's blood, and his coat, his jumper, his face._

_He didn't watch_ _Mycroft talk to the doctor, he could only stare wide-eyed at his hands. When they turned to inform him, the doctor reacted immediately: severe shock._

_He called for a nurse and with Mycroft's and Lestrade's help they gave John a sedative and took him into a room, the nurse took care of everything else._

_When he woke up, he was disoriented. Why was he in a hospital? His arm ached, then his eyes fell on a pile of bloody clothes in a corner of the room, and the memory of the previous day swept over him._

_Unable to move, he was rigid in his bed with open eyes and had only one thought: 'Sherlock'. Was the surgery successful? Was he alive? He couldn't keep up this train of thought any longer. The panic had threatened to roll over him again, as the door opened and Lestrade walked in._

_"John? John, are you awake?" He walked over to his bed and saw the fear in John's eyes._

_"John, calm down. Sherlock is out of danger. The surgery went well and Mycroft is with him now." He took hold of John's trembling hand and squeezed it briefly, "It'll be okay."_

_John's fingers reached for the hand, clutching it, until he finally calmed down_ _and let it go._

_"Greg,_ _what happened_ _?"_

_Lestrade told him what had happened, and asked him a few things, but what could John tell him that he didn't already know? He heard the warning shout, then he was thrown to the ground and all he remembered was that he had tried to stop Sherlock bleeding. Lestrade didn't know what to say, how he could apologize, he felt responsible, so he just stayed silent for at John's bedside until he fall asleep again from exhaustion._

_When John woke up several hours later, Lestrade had gone and he felt like he could get up. Thanks to Mycroft (who else), he had fresh clothes in his room, and the nurse had obviously washed him last night, because the blood off his hands and face had disappeared._

_After he had dressed he made his way out of the room so he could find Sherlock_ _. A nurse who bumped into, showed him the way to the ICU, but she noted that he wasn't allowed to visit him._

_In the ICU, he was stopped at the reception desk; only family members were allowed to visit the patients. He was asked if he was a part of the family. Through gritted teeth he said that he was Sherlock's friend, but that wasn't enough._

_John started to curse and became louder and louder, so much that the nurse was on the edge of calling security when Mycroft came out of Sherlock's room, he had heard the uproar. After Mycroft had calmed the nurse, explained that this man wasn't a dangerous psychopath but only the partner of his brother, who was half crazy with worry, he was finally able to go and see Sherlock._

_\----------_

 

He was so pale; he hardly stood out from the white pillow. Sherlock lay in bed with his eyes closed. His hair was disheveled and darker than ever against the pale skin. He hadn't moved since John sat down and took his hand a few hours ago. He kept Sherlock's hand within both of his, drawing small circles with his thumb on the back. Apart from that, he sat motionless, glazing at Sherlock's face, looking and hoping for movement.

 

Mycroft stayed in the beginning, gave John the details of the surgery when he demanded them, as the doctor had explained it to him. When John didn't respond further, he eventually resigned and went away. John was glad about that; he wanted to be alone with Sherlock. Disturbed only by occasional inspection visits of the respective nurses or doctors, he was sitting there quietly, holding Sherlock's hand.

 

Mycroft was coming back in the evening, bringing him dinner with the threat to have him removed from the hospital if he didn't eat. Later on when he became unbearably tired, he put his forehead down next to Sherlock's hand onto his own folded arms. This way he could hold Sherlock's hand and rest a bit. Almost immediately he fell asleep. The nurse silently put a blanket around his shoulders as she checked on the both half an hour later.

 

John woke up because he felt Sherlock's eyes on him. He groaned briefly as he straightened up, and his stiff neck and his aching arm reminded him how he had spent the night. He was still holding Sherlock's hand; his eyes rested on their entangled fingers.

 

Finally he looked at Sherlock. There were dark shadows around the bright eyes, Sherlock was still pale, but there was a small, timid smile on his lips. Very carefully, as if he was afraid he might break him, John kissed Sherlock's lips and caressed his cheek with one hand, while the other one still held Sherlock's hand, as if he would never let go. "There you are," he murmured softly.

 

Sherlock tried to say something, but only croaked. He cleared his throat and John gave him some water. But even this small effort made him closing his eyes again, exhausted.

 

"John", is all he let out eventually.

 

John caressed his face and his hand. "It's all right, Sherlock, you've just lost a lot of blood, that's why you're so tired and so weak. It will feel better soon, you need to get some rest now. I'll be right here."

 

A gentle pressure on his fingers replied, then Sherlock was asleep again, but this time he fell into a deep, restful sleep.

 

Mycroft brought him breakfast. He had been informed about Sherlock's brief awakening already and was therefore in good spirits. After they had eaten their tea and sandwiches in silence, Lestrade appeared, still the personification of guilt.

 

John didn't feel he was responsible at all. Sherlock and John had both been unfocused, hadn't been paying attention, or it would never have happened. They didn't speak much; John didn't want to risk waking Sherlock. Finally Mycroft and Lestrade said goodbye and left him alone with Sherlock.

 

He settled down in his chair as best as possible and after a short time he dozed off, just to startle awake almost immediately. He had dreamed of Sherlock, of blood, lots of blood, Sherlock's blood on his hands. Ok, no more sleeping.

 

He looked at the sleeping man in front of him and couldn't help thinking about how he had first met him, back in the lab at St. Barts. From the beginning, he had left a deep impression on him and made him curious; otherwise he wouldn't have gone to Baker Street the next day.

 

\--------

 

_When had he fallen so deeply in love with this man? Almost immediately, even though he didn't know it at that time, and definitely never would have admitted it. But this feeling of home, the feeling of belonging, he had felt it immediately. From the beginning he'd felt as if they'd known each other for ages, a mutual trust was already there but he didn't know it and couldn't identify at first._

_At some point he had to admit that Irene had been right, he loved Sherlock. Of course, he always knew, and knows full well that Sherlock doesn't love him, cannot love him. He had heard him say it often; from the very beginning he had made it clear that love for him doesn't exist, emotions only bring disadvantage and he wasn't able to feel these emotions, at least not to the extent John desired._

_But that hadn't changed anything about his own feelings. And when it turned out that Sherlock was at least sexual attracted to him, he decided to take what he could get. It was soon after they returned from the Baskerville case that everything began._

_At the military base he had noticed that Sherlock had started looking at him strangely, as he pretended to be the 'Captain'. His glances didn't escape his notice, but first he had interpreted them differently. After their confrontation, Sherlock had apologized, called him his only friend and that was unusual in itself, but again he had thought nothing of it._

_The big bang came afterwards. Once he realised what Sherlock had done to him in the lab, he barely could just barely pull himself together on the departure day. He was so angry, so disappointed and hurt. Was he really nothing more than a lab rat for Sherlock? Hadn't he just told him that he was his only friend? Friend! He felt like the biggest idiot in the world, wondered what he had just imagined. As if Sherlock knew what a friend was, what friendship meant. He wasn't even sure if he was madder at himself or at Sherlock._

_He recalled the ride home had been very quiet, to be exact, he hadn't said a single word. It was at home he finally exploded. One small remark from Sherlock had been enough to set him off._

_He couldn't remember exactly what he had said - or bellowed - , but it came down to the fact that he once and for all had enough of Sherlock's behavior. That he was not a lab rat he could use as he pleased; and that he should start looking for a new flat mate. He had thrown Sherlock in a furious motion with his back against the door and then he literally nailed him there with an iron grip. Never before had he seen Sherlock this way, he was frozen with fright, eyes wide, mouth open, speechless._

_Without looking back, he had left the flat. Damn, what had gotten into him? What had he done? Not only had his outburst annoyed him. What had scared him really was his physical reaction. When he pressed Sherlock against the door he became extremely aroused, more than he wanted to admit, and his anger and his arousal in combination had let him cringe and he ran away. He was confused and frightened by the intensity of his feelings. He had almost ... oh, God, no!_

_After he had walked for hours around London and had stopped at a pub for a drink, he returned with a bad feeling in the stomach. He half had expected to find his things packed at the door, and he was relieved that they weren't. However, he had not expected what awaited him, and he was completely overwhelmed by it._

_Sherlock had waited for him, and of course he had noticed that anger wasn't the only thing to drive him out of the flat. He didn't, as he had expected, shy away from him in disgust. Rather he had also been aroused by John's outburst, his commanding tone, his determination, his military appearance. And instead of accepting John's apology, he made a proposal._

_He had thought long and hard about whether he could do that, had researched on the Internet, and finally been persuaded that it was ok, that he also wanted to. And besides, it was the only chance he would ever get, he knew that. Thus he became Sherlock's dom and Sherlock became his sub._

 

\----------

 

For over three months they had this arrangement, their "contract", and though he enjoyed the sex more than he should most of the time, it was becoming increasingly clear for quite some time that something crucial was missing. And now, here, at Sherlock's bedside, he knew that he couldn't carry on this way. He wanted more, he wanted a proper relationship. He wanted love. So simple - and yet so impossible. But he would still have to talk to Sherlock when he was healthy again, even if that meant the end. He couldn't delude himself any longer.

 

***


	6. Chapter 6

A few days later Sherlock was doing well again. He was bored and he annoyed Mycroft and John because he wanted to go home.

 

"Mycroft, when can I finally get out of here? After all, I've got a doctor as a flatmate, which certainly represents enough medical support. John, you've said it yourself that I've recovered quite good already. Lying down is something I can do pretty well at home. I'll get mad if I have to stay here any longer!"

 

Finally John and Mycroft gave in. After the attending physician had agreed, Sherlock could return to 221B. Of course John assumed the required change of dressing, although Mycroft had offered to hire a nurse; but John knew very well that Sherlock would scare her away immediately, so he had declined politely.

 

\----------

 

"Sherlock, you have to eat something. Mrs. Hudson cooked that chicken especially for you, try it at least." John was cleaning up the kitchen after he had placed a filled plate in front of Sherlock, who was lying on the sofa.

 

Actually, there wasn't much to clean up. Because Sherlock was still too weak to experiment, the kitchen was clean and tidy as never before, no body parts or human organs in the fridge, no mould in Petri dishes. John was well aware of it, but somehow he had to occupy himself, if possible out of Sherlock's sight.

 

"John?"

 

"Yes?"

 

"John!"

 

He was sending an annoyed glance through the open sliding door, the kitchen towel still in his hand. "What's the matter?"

 

"I would like to hear from you. Since we're home again, you're evading me wherever you can."

 

"That's nonsense! You just still need much rest and I take care of the mundane things of everyday life. This reminds me that we're almost out of tea, I'll get some. Want me to bring something? Cheesecake perhaps?" While he was speaking, he came into the living room, drying his hands at the kitchen towel. 

 

He stood beside the couch and smiled questioningly at Sherlock. With narrow eyes Sherlock attempted to deduce John, but even though he was sure that there was something wrong about that smile, he couldn't grasp it. There was an odd note in John's voice which Sherlock couldn't quite place, but it made him uneasy.

 

A stretched "No" was his only reply.

 

John was already at the door, his coat in his hand. "Ok, I'll be back soon" and he was gone.

 

Outside the front door he had to stop and catch his breath. That was close, too close, Sherlock almost had got it, he had to be more careful.

 

When John returned an hour later, the couch was empty, the food almost untouched. He frowned and knocked at Sherlock's door.

 

"Sherlock?"

 

No response. Cautiously he opened the door, perhaps Sherlock was asleep, and he wouldn't disturb him in that case. But what he saw in the bedroom made his blood run cold.

 

Sherlock kneeled naked in front of the bed, his back to the door, his head down, the perfect attitude for a sub   ---   if you omit the trembling and the sweat, running down his back.

 

With one leap he was at his side. "What are you doing? Are you crazy? Since when do you kneel here already?"

 

With a few skilled hand grips he pushed Sherlock onto the bed and covered him with the duvet.

 

"What's this up to? Suicide by hypothermia and exhaustion?" Because of his concern and his anger he spoke louder than he had intended.

 

Sherlock had not the strength to fight back, he was trembling so hard that his teeth were chattering and he was freezing cold. John drew from his jumper, shirt and jeans and laid down next to him, taking him in his arms and rubbing his skin until he realised, that the tremor diminished and eventually ceased. Relieved, he breathed again, Sherlock's breathing was now calm and steady, and apparently he was asleep.

 

He couldn't see Sherlock's face because he was lying behind him, but after a while everything remained quiet, so he decided to get up gently so that Sherlock could continue sleeping. But a hand grabbed his and held him as soon as he stirred.

 

"Please stay ", Sherlock whispered.

 

John caressed the dark curls. "All right, but then you tell me what was that about."

 

Sherlock didn't move. He was glad he didn't have to look at John and even more that John couldn't watch him.

 

"I ... I thought .... you were so different, since we are at home again ... and ... and I thought, maybe ... maybe you're angry .... because .... because I just lie around ... because ... because ... because we don't ... we hadn't sex since ... the ......" His voice had become increasingly quieter until it finally fell silent.

 

John was frozen with horror. Abruptly he moved away from Sherlock, as if he had been burned by him.

 

"That's what you think about me? That I am angry because after you were shot and almost bled to death, you've not fast enough recovered to play your sick little games?" His voice is thick in disbelief.

 

He sat down on the bed and buried his face in his hands.

                    

"This is how you think about me? Oh God, what do you think I am?" His voice now just a horrified whisper. Something inside his chest seemed to tear apart, it hurt, it hurt so much.

 

Startled by John's vigorous reaction Sherlock has turned around, he wanted to caress his back, but John winced under the touch and jumped up. He turned around so that he could see in Sherlock's eyes.

 

"No!" he shouted, "don't touch me!" He took a few deep breaths to calm himself.

 

"I can live with the fact that you don't love me ", he declared, a little bit calmer now, "that it's just sex between us, without deeper feelings. You've told me so many times that you're not able to love, ok, so I have resigned myself, at least until now. But that you think about me so ... so ... shallow? … no …I … I can't even think of a word for it!"

 

He paced in front of the bed, back and forth; Sherlock stared at him with wide eyes, unable to say anything.

 

"Ok, if that's how it is, we can finally speak plain language, even though I really wanted to wait until you feel better."

 

Visibly nervous, he stopped in front of the bed, then he sat on the foot end, pulling up his legs and wrapping his arms around his knees, keeping firmly to himself, on a par with Sherlock, but out of his reach.

 

"I'll quit our agreement, this 'contract'. Under these circumstances you hopefully didn't expect further explanations; you've probably already formed your opinion." John thought his voice sounded amazingly calm, though very flat.

 

He rested his forehead on his drawn-up knees. He didn't want Sherlock to see how desperate he was, how empty he felt and how it hurt.

 

However, a soft "John" let him look up. Sherlock sat in front of him, wrapped in the duvet, his right hand hanging in the air, as if he wouldn't dare to touch him. And that exactly was the matter.

 

"John, I'm really sorry. I didn't want you……..I didn't want….. . Oh damnit! I don't know what I wanted." The hand sank onto the bed, Sherlock's gaze glued to his fingers, which drew small patterns on the sheet.

 

"I was afraid that this would happen, that you no longer want me  ...  I'm so sorry, I haven't ...  thought. I haven't thought at all, I was just scared. I don't want to lose you. John, ... I love you." The last words were only a strangled whisper.

 

The words reached John only very slowly, he looked at Sherlock in confusion."What?"

 

"I love you, John Watson. And I don't want to lose you", Sherlock said now with a firmer voice.

 

"No", John shook his head slowly, "oh no. You told me again and again that you don't have such feelings. Not for me and not for anyone else. And now you want me to believe at once the opposite? No! Whatever your aim is, no!" Agitated he got up and again he paced back and forth in front of the bed.

 

"John, please listen to me. Yes, I thought I was not capable of these feelings, I've never felt anything like this for somebody. And it took a while until I recognised and understood it myself. But you're not just anybody; you're John, my John, who overrode all my rules, who is something special in every way. You've shown me that I can love. Can love you."

 

Shocked and still incredulous John looked at him. That couldn't be true, he was dreaming or hallucinating. Sherlock loved him? Impossible! Or was it? Could this be true? No. And if so, how long would that take? And before he could help it, he had uttered it.

 

"How long? How long do you think it will take?" John stopped dead, only his eyes moved restless to and fro.

 

This time it was Sherlock who looked at him in confusion. "What do you mean? How long will what take?"

 

"Until you're bored of me. Until you're tired of me," he said quietly and a single tear carved its path from his eye. "What do you think, why I entered this agreement with you? Because it was the only way ….." His voice broke off.

 

"It was the only way for what? Do you tell me that all was just ... the whole time you had only pretended? Because you thought .... this can't be true." Shaken, Sherlock stared at him.

 

For a while, there was absolute silence. Sherlock was sitting motionless with his eyes closed on the bed, his hands folded in his typical manner when he was thinking, the index fingers on the lower lip.

 

John stared at him, fascinated, he wasn't able to tear himself away from the so familiar and yet always exciting sight. What was he supposed to do now, what was he supposed to think?

 

He could practically hear how it worked in Sherlock's head as he was passing conversations, situations, reactions in his 'mind palace', drew conclusions and rejected them, came to new results, until he finally opened his eyes and gazed at John with an expression between amazement and realization firmly in his eyes. Blushing, with the feeling that he had been caught out at whatever, he turned away.

 

"You are an idiot", John's head jerked around "... and so am I," Sherlock went on. "I was so blind and ignorant. I love you. 'Cause you're John, my friend, my blogger, my flatmate, the one who grounded me, who takes care of me, who is always there, who can surprise me. You know more about me than anyone else, and still you're here."

 

His gaze fixed John's eyes. "And I've overlooked the most important thing   -   you, what you want, what you need. I've ignored everything that didn't fit into my image."

 

Sherlock stood up, still clutching the duvet with one hand. His fingers were brushing John's cheek gently, moving along the line of his jaw and following the neckline down to his shoulder.

 

"You will never be boring, John."

 

John would like to believe him, he would like to throw himself into his arms, bury his head at his chest, and forget the world. But he couldn't. There were too many doubts and deep fears. A few words of Sherlock, as sincere as they were meant, couldn't extinguish them.

 

"I .... I can't do that now." He turned around, grabbed his pants and his jumper and went.

 

All he could think was, 'I got to get out of here, immediately, or something will happen, and I don't know in the least what.' Outside the bedroom he slipped into his clothes, passing by he grabbed his coat and then he was already out of the house.

 

***


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry that I'm late, my Internet broke down *grmmmpf*. But now I'm back again, hope you enjoy the next chapter. :)

 

Half an hour later he was sitting in the pub where he met sometimes with Greg after work. It was almost like a neutral zone, Sherlock had never been here. John was not sure whether Sherlock even knew this pub. Exactly what he needed right now, a place where nothing reminded him at Sherlock, where he wouldn't show up, couldn't manipulate him.

 

Drinking his third beer, he realised that this wouldn't help. Had he really thought that alcohol would help him? With a sister like Harry, he should have known better. But maybe he could forget everything at least for a few hours, could forget Sherlock. At this point he couldn't and he wouldn't think about what Sherlock had said. He was so confused and muddled, he just needed time, and he wanted to be alone.

 

A bunch of drunken women came into the bar, one wearing a pink boa around her neck - bachelorette farewell. While they were waiting for their drinks, one of the women turned to him, eyeing him for a while and smiling at him, an open, honest smile. "Hello stranger," she said, and tilted her head flirtatious slightly to one side. He gave the smile back in surprise. "Hello." She had dark hair, was in her late twenties and very good looking. A few months ago she would have been exactly his type.

 

"Are you often here, stranger?" 

 

He had to grin. "John, I'm John."

 

"Hi John, I'm Mary. But that doesn't answer my question."

 

"Sometimes, but not regularly."

 

"So I just lucky." Her drink came and she raised her glass. "To a nice evening."

 

Oh man, was he really sitting in a pub and a pretty woman was flirting with him? A little too late, right? A weird, slightly sad smile played around his lips. John held out his glass toward her. "To a nice evening."

 

The door swung open and without looking up John knew who stood there, staring at him. He froze in mid-motion. Mary looked at him in amazement, glanced at the man at the door and then back to John. "Oh", was all she said. "Too bad, the best are always already assigned."

 

John looked at her irritated, then her words had reached his mind and he blushed. This time an apologetic smile appeared on his face. "I'm sorry, but ..."

 

She interrupted him: "Hey, you don't have to apologize, anyway, I started. Also, I must admit that he's a pretty good reason." This time she studied him more skeptical. "Trouble? You don't look really happy."

 

He stared into his glass. Should he now and here, in a pub with a stranger, talk about his problems with Sherlock, while he was still standing at the entrance, staring at him? Hardly. "It's complicated," he said merely to Mary.

 

"You know what," she said, and took his mobile phone, which was lying on the bar beside his glass, "I give you my phone number." In the meantime she eagerly tapped at his mobile, then put it back again. "If you need someone to talk, just call me. Seriously, I like you, and sometimes it helps to talk to someone who is not so close to get a different, fresh perspective."

 

"Thanks," he looked at her and nodded, didn't know what else to say.

 

"It's okay, bye John." Thus she got up, gave him a light kiss on the cheek, took her drink and walked to her friends, who had seated at a table by this time.

 

John remained sitting and sipped his beer. He didn't even raise his head when Sherlock sat down beside him.

 

"John, can we talk?" The bartender came and Sherlock ordered a beer. "Please."

 

John looked at him, his face blank, emotionless. He simply didn't know what he thought, what he felt. But he picked up his glass and sat down at a table in an alcove where they were a bit of undisturbed. When they sat down, his gaze crossed Mary's, she smiled and nodded at him reassuringly.

 

"John." Sherlock got his beer and sat down across him, not coincidentally in Mary's direction. Of course, he had been watching the whole time, he knew what they were talking about at the bar. Was he jealous? Ridiculous.

 

"Sherlock, what are you doing here? How do you actually know that I'm here?" However, before Sherlock could answer, John interrupted already. "Never mind, just forget it. I can't stand your endless explanations right now."

 

Sherlock turned his glass back and forth and looked with interest at the rings it left on the wooden table. "You do not believe me," he said quietly, his eyes still stapled to the table, then he raised his eyes, searching for Johns glance. "What can I do to make you believe me?"

 

"I don't know, I need time." John rubbed a hand over his face. "I want to believe you, but I can't get it together. I just can't …", he buried his face in his hands. "If you are .... if it's true what you said, why did you ... how could you think something like that about me?"

 

He closed his eyes, again he had the image in mind of Sherlock, who knelt trembling and about to collapse on the floor, and he felt sick. "I gotta get out." Pale and with the urge to vomit he stormed out, remained standing next to the door. He leaned against the wall, his hands resting on his knees. He trembled breathing heavily, as if he had just a race behind. Sherlock followed him. He said nothing, waited until John felt a bit better.

 

"Your coat," he held it out to John when he straightened up again.

 

Sherlock also was white as a sheet. He should be at home, John thought, he needed to rest.

 

"C'mon, you have to go home before you collapse in the middle of the street," he said, as he pulled on his coat.

 

Sherlock said nothing, didn't even protest, when John put him into a taxi. Only when John closed the door and went to the front to provide the address to the cabbie, Sherlock realised that John wouldn't come home with him. Startled, he looked up and tried to catch John's glance, but the taxi drove off and he was gone.

 

John looked after the cab, not sure what he should do now. He needed distance, which was clear to him. So, where to go? Harry? No, he didn't want her pesky questions right now. He started to walk; walking had always helped him to think. Sarah? Since the incident at the Chinese circus their contact was confined to the purely professional, so better not. He hadn't much choice; his circle of friends wasn't very big and hadn't grown since he lived with Sherlock. Greg, or maybe Molly, but he had no desire to answer their questions as well. At best, he looked for a hotel for a few nights.

 

An hour later, he found a small, cheap hotel, a bit shabby, but for a few days it would work. Moreover, no one asked why he had no luggage.

 

Later on John lay on his bed, staring at his phone. Three new messages in the last thirty minutes, all from Sherlock.

 

 

-  WHERE ARE YOU? SH

 

-  JOHN, ARE YOU OK? SH

 

-  I MISS YOU. SH

 

Finally, he answered him, he didn't want him worried.

 

-  I'M OK. I NEED SOME TIME ALONE, THAT'S ALL.

 

Amazingly, his phone actually remains silent afterwards.

 

John turned on the telly and flipped through the channels, without watching. He was completely drained and exhausted and eventually he fell asleep.

 

\----------

 

_Cold_ _,_ _it's cold,_ _why_ _is_ _it so cold_ _? John looks around, he's in an empty room, he is naked, and it's freezing. There is something on the floor ... someone ... Sherlock! He lies naked on the cold floor, curled up into a ball, red welts all over his body. John wants to go to him, wants to take him in his arms, but he can't move. He calls him, but Sherlock doesn't react. Suddenly he is above him, but he has a cane in his hand, his old cane. Startled he drops the cane, but Sherlock still_ _doesn't stir_ _. He bends over him, Sherlock is so cold, so cold, why doesn't he move, why doesn't he react? He takes him in his arms, turns him around and looks into Sherlock's empty eyes._

\-----------

 

John was awakened by a terrible cry. He nearly jumped, drenched in sweat, and realised that it was his own cry. Exhausted, he fell back on the pillow; his body was shaken by sobs. When he finally stood up, his pillow was wet, but he was slightly better.

 

It was 4:30 am, everything was still dark outside. He was restless, flipping through the channels again, playing with his mobile phone. No new messages. If he was sitting in this room any longer, he'd go mad, so he decided to go out and few minutes later he was running through nighttime London. He had to grin involuntarily. If he continued this way, he soon would know the streets just as well as Sherlock did.

 

Sherlock. Again and again, Sherlock. He couldn't get the pictures out of his mind, as his nightmare showed. His thoughts revolved. "Round and round the garden, like a teddy bear", he murmured and a weary smile crossed his face. Sherlock said it when they had a quarrel about the solar system. And again  -  Sherlock. Everything reminds him at Sherlock. Sometimes he wondered if he had a life before Sherlock, he could hardly remember a time without Sherlock. He devoured him, ate him completely.

 

A little later he was sitting on a park bench, drinking a coffee and thinking about what he should do next. In any case, he had to get some of his clothing, which meant he had to go to their flat. It was shortly after 6:00 am, Sherlock normally slept at this time, if he slept at all, so he decided to go immediately.

 

Twenty minutes later he opened the door to 221B and quietly walked upstairs, thoroughly avoiding the creaky stair. Outside the flat he hesitated for a moment, then he went on and up the second staircase to his room. Once there, he went straight to his closet and pulled out a small bag and threw in a couple of jumper, shirts, trousers and so on, he worked quietly and effectively, then thought for a moment. He would buy new toiletries; he didn't want to go down to the bathroom. His revolver, should he take it?

 

As he was pondering he heard a noise behind him and turned around, startled. There was a groan, and then he saw it - him. Sherlock lay in his bed and seemed to dream, and not a good one. He was fully dressed, his shirt was drenched in sweat and his legs were tangled in the sheets. He clutched at John's pillow and moaned again.

 

Without thinking twice John went over, sat down on the bed and stroked his hair gently back from his forehead. He tried to calm him with softly murmured words, but it wasn't getting better. Sherlock suddenly tensed. "John. John! John! No, don't go! Please, John, don't leave me! John! JOHN!" He was clawing to the pillow, curled up more and more. "Don't leave me, please!"

 

John held him, as best he could. He stroked his back soothingly, and spoke softly to him until he was relaxing. Finally Sherlock slept quiet again. John sat for a moment with him and just watched him; he could hardly tear himself away. Then he picked up his bag and went one floor down, took his washing and shaving gear from the bathroom and disappeared.

 

In the afternoon, he was as clueless as he was in the early morning. He had no idea what he should do. After the incident in his bedroom, he was rather more confused. His mobile phone remained silent. No message from Sherlock, as often as he watched it. While he was playing on the keys, he remembered Mary and what she had said, and he sought her number.

 

It took him almost half an hour to dial her number. After the second ringing she answered the call: "Morsten."

 

"Hello Mary?  It's John, John Watson, we met at the pub yesterday and you gave me your number. I hope I don't disturb you."

 

"John? Oh, John, with the beautiful intricate friend."

 

"Yes, uhmmm, well, … you said if I want to talk to someone, I might call."

 

"And that's exactly what I meant. How are you? Are you ok?"

 

"Well, have you already planned something for tonight, or can I persuade you to have dinner with me?"

 

"Actually you're lucky; 10 minutes ago my friend has canceled our weekly meeting, so I'm free for dinner."

 

So his hesitation had indeed been worthwhile yet. They briefly discussed, when and where they wanted to meet up, and then they ended the call. He was surprised at himself. Had he really just called an almost alien woman he had only just met last night at a pub, with which he hadn't even spoken a dozen sentences, to discuss with her his most intimate problems of his relationship? But it felt so right, it was almost like it had been when he had met Sherlock the first time, he just knew that he was doing the right thing.

 

***


	8. Chapter 8

 

They met in a small Italian restaurant. John would have preferred to go to Angelo's, but then he had rather choose a place where he had never been with Sherlock.

 

Mary was on time and just as uncomplicated and likable as he remembered her. He had this feeling of knowing her forever again, and suddenly he was sure that this was the right thing to do.

 

After they had exchanged a few courtesies, only a bit small talk, and ordered the meal Mary looked at him thoughtfully. The waiter brought the wine, poured and left. Mary still looked at him in silence.

 

Then she picked up her glass and held it out to him. "To a nice evening."

 

John also raised his glass and clinked glasses with her. "I hope so." He glanced at his mobile phone, which was lying on the table and has kept silent all day.

 

"You haven't slept much, right?" Mary turned her glass of wine, watching the red liquid drawing streaks. "A good wine", she said, when he didn't answer.

 

John nodded, not mentioning whether he meant her question or the wine.

 

"What happened last night? The conversation with your friend seemed to be peacefully. I haven't noticed anything, suddenly you were both gone. The barman said you didn't look good, as if you'd been sick."

 

"Yes, the memory of ... something ... something that had happened before, literally turned my stomach." He was already pale again.

 

"Hey, John," Mary took his hand that lay beside his glass on the table and squeezed it lightly. "Stay here! Look at me, come on, take a sip of the wine."

 

She released his hand and watched him again, as he raised his glass, took a sip and put it back again.

 

"I'm fine, thank you. Sorry, I didn't mean ...." The sentence remained unfinished. Well, good start, John thought frustrated.

 

"So you've left the pub together. What happened then?"

 

John could not help grinning, she sounded like a police officer during an interrogation, but the rational questioning actually helped him to concentrate.

 

"Then I put Sherlock into a taxi and sent him home. He's been shot a few days ago and has lost a lot of blood. Actually, he should still stay in the hospital, but because I'm a doctor, he was allowed to go home sooner."

 

His voice grew quieter, as he realized that he should be with him, that he had to take care of him. His dressing had to be changed and he was sure Sherlock wouldn't have taken his tablets, not to mention the food. Startled, he looked at Mary: "Oh my God, I left him all alone, I need to go."

 

Her hand rested again on his. "Stop it, John. Now we'll have dinner. You have to eat something. One more hour won't matter, and I think this, our conversation, is important for you. Tell me how he was injured, was he attacked?"

 

John almost laughed. "No, Sherlock is a Consulting detective, the police ask him for help when they get stuck. We were called to a crime scene, a house in a quiet suburb, and we were both inattentive. The perpetrator was still in the house and has shot at us after we got out of the cab. I stood with my back to the house, paid the driver, as Sherlock threw me to the ground."

 

She still squeezed his hand and looked at him with wide eyes now. "That happens to you frequently? I mean that someone is shooting at you? This sounds like it's  ... normal."

 

John was frowning. He had to admit that it wasn't the first time. "Every now and then, depends on the case. A few months ago we had a case with explosives and a few snipers, aiming at us. Then the Americans, who wanted to shoot me if Sherlock wouldn't open the safe. And four weeks ago I just barely…."

 

He stopped when he saw Mary's eyes growing bigger. Time and again he forgot that 'normal' people were shocked mostly of their lifestyle.

 

"Sorry," a wry smile on his face now. "I didn't want to shock you."

 

Mary took a big gulp of wine. "All right, but this is something I was not prepared for. Both of you seem to be in danger constantly."

 

"No, that sounds worse than it is, I think, anyway." The crooked grin again.

 

"How long do you live together already?"

 

"Actually, we were just colleagues. We share the apartment for financial reasons now for almost 2 years. Sherlock isn't a simple flatmate."

 

"And as a friend?"      

 

The waiter brought their pasta and poured more wine, they both began to eat in silence.

 

After a while Mary said softly: "Sherlock must love you very much, as he threw himself without hesitation between you and the bullet."

 

This time, John looked at her almost surprised. Without thinking, and with a shrug, he replied: "No, that's the way we always do, however, it is actually more of my part to protect him, that's my job, he is the mastermind of the two of us, I am the sniper and the audience, when he makes his deductions." He kept eating and realized after a few moments, that Mary sat across from him with her mouth open.

 

"What?", he asked, irritated.

 

"You mean, normally you throw yourself between Sherlock and the bullet?"

 

"If you want to say it that way. Sounds a bit dramatic in your words."

 

"You love him so much." A simple statement, not a question. "And he loves you." Again, no question. "No one sacrifices himself for someone else as a matter of course, if not from a large, unconditional love. What is your problem?"

 

He stared at Mary. Only now the full extent became clear to him. "Unconditionally .... He has caught the bullet, which was meant for me ... A matter of course .... Without him, I would be dead now", he muttered.

 

For a moment he had to close his eyes and breathe in deeply. Then he finally knew what he had to do.

 

"Mary, you're a genius." John was on his feet and standing next to her chair. He took her face into his hands and pressed a kiss on her forehead. "Are you very angry with me if I leave now? I promise you that we'll make up for a quite large dinner, that is the least I owe you."

 

His eyes were shining and Mary couldn't help but respond to his broad grin. "Well, go on, and I expect a success report."

 

He hurriedly put the money for the dinner on the table, grabbed his jacket and disappeared.

 

Mary shook her head, smiling, and devoted herself to her, meanwhile cold, pasta. Somehow she felt that this could be a friendship for a lifetime, a wonderful and exhausting friendship. As long as John didn't let someone shoot him down.

 

In the meantime John ran again through the streets of London, he wasn't looking for a cab; he had to move, due to his high adrenaline level.

 

How could he has been so blind, how could he has doubted Sherlock's love. Mary had put it all in a nutshell. Wonderful Mary, he thanked Providence that they had both taken at the right time at the right place.

 

Finally he arrived at Baker Street. Everything is dark and quiet, nervous and out of breath, he opened the door. How would Sherlock welcome him? No matter, he needed to go to him right now. Taking two steps at once he stormed into the flat.

 

The living room was empty, the kitchen appeared unused. He went on to Sherlock's bedroom and knocked softly at the door, no response. He opened it quietly and for a short moment the memory of Sherlock, kneeling and trembling beside the bed, dropped on him and he shuddered. But Sherlock wasn't there, the bed was untouched. He took a look at the bathroom, which was empty, just as he had expected.

 

Disappointed, he slumped into his chair, wondering where Sherlock could be. Should he text him? Perhaps a new case? His eyes wandered around the flat, Sherlock's coat was hanging at the door, he had to be there! Electrified John jumped up. Of course! Why hadn't he thought of it?

 

With a few steps he was at the door to his bedroom, hesitated only for a moment, and then opened it carefully. And there was Sherlock, still in the same rumpled clothes, curled up into a ball, the pillow pressed to his chest. It almost seemed as if he hadn't left the bed all day.

 

Slowly he went to the bed and sat down, stroking gently over Sherlock's curls - and his hand jerked back in alarm. Sherlock's head was hot, his whole body seemed to glow, obviously he had a high fever, possibly a long time. Apparently, he had neither eaten nor drunk and there was no trace of his tablets.

 

John shook gently at Sherlock's shoulder. "Sherlock. Sherlock! You have to wake up!" He turned him onto his back, Sherlock's head rolled to one side, unconsciously. "SHERLOCK!"

 

On the way to the bathroom, to fetch some wet towels to cool Sherlock's body down, he called an ambulance. He had his medical bag there, but he couldn't do anything against the dehydration, and he had only tablets to reduce the fever. When he was up in his room again he wrapped the damp towels at Sherlock's calves, cooled his forehead and moistened his lips with a few drops of water.

 

In front of the house the lights of the ambulance flickered. He ran down the stairs to open the door and nearly fell into Mycroft's arms.

 

"John, what the…"

 

Impatiently he pushed him aside. "Not now, Mycroft!"

 

He waved the paramedics up the stairs, ran forward and gave them the information they needed. Sherlock was still unconscious, probably severely dehydrated and since more than 24 hours without food. John had found the tablets in the kitchen, on the kitchen counter, where he had left them.

 

When Sherlock hung on the drip and was on his way to the hospital, John sank exhausted into his chair and buried his face in his hands. He should have been here, should have looked at him, took care of him. It was all his fault. And this time he was certainly not as fast out of the hospital again, Mycroft would see to that. Mycroft! 

 

John lifted his head and looked directly into Mycroft's gray eyes, who sat across from him in Sherlock's chair.

 

"I'm sorry, Mycroft. I wasn't at home and it seems that Sherlock hasn't eaten or drank anything in the last 24 hours, he's dehydrated. I'm sorry. It's my fault. I'm so sorry." He dropped his head.

 

Mycroft said nothing, didn't even move. This made John finally raise his head again. He had actually expected harsh words from Mycroft. Somehow he couldn't imagine him with a loud outburst like Sherlock, but he still wouldn't like to be the target of his wrath. Irritated, he looked at him.

 

Mycroft sat in Sherlock's chair, his fingertips folded in the same way to his lips, as he had seen so often at Sherlock when he was thinking, while Mycroft's eyes pierced him and John felt like he was reading his thoughts. "John," he said finally, "We should go to the hospital now. He will want to see you when he wakes up. Anything else later." He stood up and walked to the door, as he reached it he turned around impatiently. "Come on."  

 

Without further argue, pointless with Mycroft anyway, John followed the advice which was more of a command. He felt so bad, he was glad that he took him with him at all; he felt as if he had forfeit the right to be at Sherlock's side.

 

Would Sherlock really want to see him when he woke up? If he hadn't been so afraid of this very issue, he would have gone by ambulance directly to the hospital. But Mycroft seemed to be so sure, that has caused him new hope.

 

They walked in silence through the hospital corridors, thanks to Mycroft this time they had no trouble when they arrived at Sherlocks room and went inside.

 

In the room it was quiet, only the beeping of the monitoring equipment could be heard. Sherlock lay pale and with closed eyes on the pillow, the fever was apparently down and a drip for the hydration was hanging over his bed.

 

Mycroft was standing at the foot of the bed, while John quietly took a chair and sat down at the bedside. He did not even dare to look at Sherlock, he felt so damn guilty. He looked longingly at the pale, long fingers, which were now lying limply on the bedspread. How happy he would be to wrap his hands around them now, just to keep them.

 

John hadn't realized that Mycroft went at some point, he had no idea how long he sat there, lost in thoughts with his head down, when he suddenly flinched, startled.

 

"John." It was a hoarse croak more than anything else, then a cough.

 

"Wait, I'll help you." He lifted Sherlock's head and upper body a little bit and held the glass to his lips, so he could drink a sip of water. Exhausted, he fell back into the pillow. His hand twitched in John's direction and this time John reached for it instinctively, he held it tenderly in his hands and stroked it gently.

 

"John", Sherlock was breathing heavily, "you're here." With relief he closed his eyes again.

 

"Yes, I am here," he swallowed hard, "and I'll stay as long as you want me to."

 

***

 


	9. Chapter 9

 

Fortunately, Sherlock recovered once again quite quickly. After the fever had gone, he was stuck for several days on a drip. Then he could finally gain solid food again. However, this time the doctors insisted that he remained longer in the Hospital, so they could keep an eye on him.

 

Mrs. Hudson brought freshly cooked food, cakes and other goodies for Sherlock to the hospital, so he ate properly.

 

Especially John was very grateful to her, because Sherlock had barely touched the food in the hospital. He felt responsible for ensuring that Sherlock was eating enough, and with the good food from their landlady it was much easier to get him there.

 

They spoke little with each other. Sherlock was too quiet, nagging hardly around; and he never once asked when he could go home. John was almost always there, he even stayed during the first nights.  When Sherlock was better he went home late at night, just to be there again in the morning before reveille. The nurses and doctors had given up on send him away, Sherlock was also much more relaxed and easier to deal with when John was in the vicinity.

 

Mycroft came by every day, what was almost disconcerting, and Lestrade visited him a couple of times, Mrs. Hudson, of course anyway, and even Molly passed by a few times. But even when they finally were alone, they hardly spoke, and then it came to that it was only trivial stuff: there was a strange, tense atmosphere between them. Sometimes John felt like living on a volcano, and one day it would explode, the only question was when.

 

Finally the day of discharge was there. John grabbed Sherlock's things, put them into the small travel bag he had previously taken to the hotel, which seemed to be like a lifetime away. After his conversation with Mycroft one of his errand boys picked up John's stuff from the hotel and brought it back to Baker Street. Sake of simplicity John had merely dumped his clothes later and repacked the bag with Sherlock's things.

 

Sherlock looked at the bag and frowned. He wondered why John hadn't taken one of his own bags, the one he had with him the last time in hospital, for example, but he didn't say anything.

 

John just wanted to go home. Maybe then he could finally talk to Sherlock without having constantly to be on guard who would be the next to burst into the room. There had always been visitors, there had always been nurses or doctors doing something with Sherlock, and if they only controlled his temperature or blood pressure. It was annoying.

 

Moreover he hadn't slept properly for more than a week; and if so, he usually had woken up a short time later with nightmares. That was the reason why he had remained in the evening as long as possible with Sherlock, and was back at the hospital early in the morning. Gradually, tiredness and fatigue became noticeable.

 

Mycroft had sent a car to bring them back to Baker Street; and once Mrs. Hudson had welcomed them extensively, they were finally, finally alone. And it felt strange, awkward; nothing was right.

 

For a moment they stood in the living room, indecisively, until John grabbed the bag. He was restless, almost nervous, just had to do something.

 

"I'm gonna go unpack that stuff, also have to do the laundry urgently", he muttered and walked away to the bathroom.

 

Sherlock stayed alone and somehow lost in the middle of the room. John's bag, he remembered, not his. Why? John wanted to show something to him? What? He sat down in his chair and put his palms together, fingertips placed under his chin, and he was deep in thoughts, when John came back.

 

"Want a cuppa tea? The stuff in the hospital was inedible. And then I'll have to do some shopping, I think the fridge is empty, well, except for a few remnants of your last experiment." He opened the refrigerator door, "Uhhh, the milk is sour, I'll better go first."

 

He was almost out of the door, his coat in his hand, when Sherlock's voice, quiet and cold as ice, froze him in mid-motion. "You wanted to leave. No, you had left. You had packed your bag in a hurry and were gone. Why are you here again? What do you want anymore? I'm fine; you needn't have to feel guilty."

 

John had turned ashen. Slowly he turned to Sherlock. "What? That's what you think? That the guilty conscience has pushed me to the hospital and now here? I am surprised that you've even solved one of your cases, if that's what you had deduced." His voice grew louder. His teeth gritted, his lips only a thin line, his hands clenched into fists, he stood in the doorway, the symbol of laboriously suppressed rage. His nerves were already wrecked and this ... this bloody idiot actually imputed …

 

Suddenly everything went black around him, and a moment later he found himself on the floor. Oh shit, he squeezed his eyes briefly before he opened them again and tried to get up. Sherlock was already beside him and held him by the arm, which was just fine, because John was still dizzy. Sherlock pushed him gently to the couch and they sat down.

 

"I'm all right, all right", John grumbled, still angry and annoyed. "I have to eat something, that's all. Nothing you have to worry about." He wanted to get up, but a renewed attack of vertigo left him sink back into the sofa. Totally frustrated, he shouted. "Oh, damn it!" Then he simply remained sitting on the sofa, his face buried in his hands. He was so exhausted, completely drained and empty.

 

Sherlock jerked back, startled; then he took John in his arms, a little awkward at first, then more firmly. And very, very slowly, he could feel how the tension eased from John's body, he leaned into Sherlock and finally returned the embrace. They sat there for a long time, holding each other in silence.

 

"When did you eat the last time?" Sherlock asked, as he stroked John's back gently.

 

"Dunno, yesterday afternoon I think," John murmured against Sherlock's chest.

 

"A very good doctor, whom I happen to know, has told me once that regular meals are important," Sherlock smiled and brushed John's hair with his lips.

 

"Oh, yeah? Do I know him?" John didn't want to move his head away from Sherlock's chest, snuggled more to it. It was the first time in about two weeks, he felt that he probably could relax. He didn't want to leave now. Never again.

 

Sherlock continued stroking him, playing with his hair. He himself was completely confused; too many conflicting emotions in much too short a time. He had thought John wanted to leave him and that had quite rip him; and now he was sitting there, holding him in his arms and he couldn't get the stupid grin off his face.

 

When he didn't answer John turned a little, so that he could watch him. Surprised, he looked at Sherlock's grin. "Are you okay?"

 

Sherlock could only nod, his throat was tight and he couldn't get out any sound.

 

And slowly, very slowly, John gave him a soft kiss, barely touching his lips. It was more of a swiping as a real kiss. Sherlock closed his eyes and gave in entirely to his feelings, felt the feather-light touch of John's lips on his own, on his jaw, his cheeks, his ear. A shudder shook him and goose bumps covered his arms and his torso, as John kissed him behind his ear, and then slid down along his neck.

 

"Oh God, John, please."

 

John pulled back slightly. "Please stop, or please go ahead?" he asked playfully.

 

Sherlock took a deep breath, steeling himself: "Seriously John, you have to eat something. I know what I am talking about, I have been fainting because I haven't eaten for too long. And I remember exactly all of what you have told me on such occasions."

 

"Ok, you're right. Chinese?" John sighed eventually.

 

Sherlock had the phone already in his hand and ordered for both of them, while John's head rested on his chest again.

 

"Will you to tell me what happened after you have sent me away in that cab?" Sherlock's long fingers caressed John's neck, playing with his hair again. "You didn't came home that night, I've been waiting in your room for you", he blushed, "I wanted to talk to you if you would come back. At some point I must have fallen asleep yet.  -   I've dreamed of you", he added quietly.

 

John sighed again. "I needed to be alone, at least I wanted to try to think about us. But I was always turning around in circles. At 6 am I sat at a bench over a coffee, I thought that it would be best if I would stay in the hotel for a few days, only two or three, until I would know what to do. So I wanted to get some clothes, if possible, without running into you. When I got to my room I was so fixated on being as quickly and quietly as possible, that I only saw you on my bed when you were shaken by a nightmare. I could calm you down a bit until you've slept quietly again."

 

"Then you were really there, it wasn't a dream!?"

 

"Seems so. And you looked actually quite healthy, just a little exhausted."

 

"As I said, I was afr ... worried to miss you, so I've just stayed in your bed. And because Mrs. Hudson was at her sister's …"

 

John sat up and looked sternly into Sherlock's eyes. "... no one has noticed, and you were up there, almost kicked the bucket. Don't do such a thing ever again, promised?

 

Sherlock nodded, he had a lump in his throat, could barely speak. "Promised."

 

John took Sherlock's face in his hands and gave him a kiss on the forehead, "Ok."

 

Then he let him go again, quite a bit more relaxed than before he sank back into the sofa and looked at Sherlock as he continued: "In the afternoon, I knew at least that I had to talk to someone, I got no further all alone. Neither Harry nor Greg were in question", Sherlock nodded sympathetically," so I finally called Mary."

 

"Mary? The woman you met in the pub the night before?" Sherlock frowned.

 

"Yes, exactly. I can't explain why, but … it felt right. Though, she is a total stranger, I feel as if we've known each other for years. I trust her." He looked at Sherlock in surprise. "I trust her," he repeated amazed.

 

He thought for a moment. "I think you would like her. She detects connections, and she asks the right questions."

 

Sherlock's eyes had narrowed and he watched him closely. "Has she done that to you? Made the right connections?" he asked in a neutral tone.

 

Really? Was Sherlock jealous? John had to bite back a grin. "Yes. Actually, everything was there, but I haven't seen it until she pushed me." A wry smile crept across his face. "I know; I see, but I don't observe. But deductions aren't my specialty; I think I was a little bit distracted at that time, too. Well, whatever, I told her a little bit about us, our life, and first she was shocked. But then she merely said: He loves you, you love him, what's your problem?"

 

While he was speaking he took Sherlock's hand, painting with the thumb small circles in his palm. "And then I was baffled; why had I not see that? And I came here on the shortest route,...  But you were already unconscious", he added in a whisper, holding his hand now tightly.

 

"There is one thing I realized", he raised his glance and looked straight into Sherlock's eyes, "I love you and I won't live one more day without you. But … not as your dom but rather than your partner. No cane, no whip and, above all, no punishments", he shuddered involuntarily and closed his eyes, as he visualised again the picture of a trembling Sherlock. It had stoved in his mind, he didn't know whether he ever again could bear to see Sherlock on his knees. When he continued, his voice was uncertain, "I've honestly tried, but I can't do that anymore, at least not the way it was." He stared at his hands, and waited with clenched teeth for Sherlock's reaction.

 

"Ok."

 

John's head jerked up. "Sorry, what? Ok?"

 

"Yes, of course." Sherlock looked at him seriously. "John, I love you. I will do whatever it takes to be with you. I'm sorry, I've required something, that you haven't wanted. I should have realised that earlier." 

 

"I wanted to be as you wanted me, I wanted to be _right_ for you."

 

"You are perfect the way you are."

 

"I don't want any more rules."

 

"All right."

 

"But you wanted the rules."

 

"You are actually more important than any rules. What about games?"

 

"What do you mean? Handcuffs?"

 

"Yes, well, everything what you are willing to do."

 

"I like you tied up, but I will never beat you again."

 

"Just what you like. You determine the limits."

 

"And that will be enough for you?"

 

" _You_ are enough for me."

 

John blushed and a bright smile spread across his face. His fingers caressed Sherlock's cheek, clutched his neck and pulled him slowly nearer, but before he could kiss him the bell at the front door rang. Both of them winced startled, and then the pent-up tension was released in a shared giggle, which became a loud laughter soon. Their food was there.

 

After dinner they watched telly. John tried to watch a thriller, while Sherlock was mocking about the police and the forensic team in the film and knew after five minutes who the murderer was.

 

John's gaze wandered to Sherlock and his thoughts drifted. He watched Sherlock, how he gesticulated and moved. The flickering light of the TV cast shadows on his face, his shirt. John's eyes followed Sherlock's neckline, wandered to the open shirt collar, and then higher, remained on his seductive lips.

 

He didn't realise that he leaned over, John's hand was stroking Sherlock's thighs while he opened his lips slightly. Sherlock fell silent mid-sentence, he turned his head and looked at John, and then their lips met. First it was just a gentle caress, feather-light kisses, a nibble on the lower lip. Then the kisses became more intense, Sherlock lips parted, let in Johns tongue, they melted together, became one.

 

And it was gorgeous, almost as if they had never kissed before. Everything was so familiar and at the same time completely new. His fatigue was gone. For the first time John could let it go. Only feeling Sherlock's touches on his skin, his own lips on Sherlock's neck, his throat, his chest. Sherlock's naked warm skin under his own fingers, which moved further and further. Sherlock's hands on his back, his arms, and his face, everywhere. The world consisted of nothing but hands and mouth and teeth on his skin, it was incredible.

 

Somehow they managed to get rid of the shirts and John's jumper. John stood up, pulled Sherlock up with him.

 

"Come", he kissed Sherlock's collarbone as he pushed him toward the bedroom, "I want to feel you, everywhere, on me, over me and in me."

 

In response he received only a low rumble from Sherlock's chest, almost a growl. Sherlock pressed against him, gently caressing John's neck with his teeth, before he nibbled and sucked to his sensitive spot behind his ear. John was gasping until Sherlock stopped, leaving a mark that can't be ignored.

 

'My John' he thought, and the idea sent him a chill down the spine.

 

John looked at him. "You're all right?"

 

A whole new sensation crept into Sherlock's chest, spread through him until he's completely flooded. Possessive he took John firmly in his arms and looked into his eyes. This time he said it out loud, he needed to hear it to believe it. "My John." 

 

And John saw it in his eyes, he felt it in his embrace, heard it in his words. The new obsession, the fire, the desire. John's face was beaming when he replied: "My Sherlock."

 

That was all they needed. All pieces of the puzzle suddenly matched; all the fears, all the uncertainties seemed to fall away from them as their mouths collided in a long, feverish kiss.

 

In the bedroom they continued to undress without haste or hurry, caressing each other's body, stroking, teasing. They enjoyed the unusual and wonderful feeling of discovering each other new. John pulled Sherlock down on the bed, so that Sherlock was on top of him. He could feel him from the toes up to the dark curls, in which he buried his hands as he kissed him.

 

Their bodies rubbed together, bare skin against bare skin, their erections touched and John stretched out his hips while Sherlock was leaning on his arms to enhance the touch. John finally reached between their bodies, covered them both with his hand and moved them together in a slow pulse up and down.

 

"Oh God, John." Sherlock closed his eyes and was biting his lower lip. This sight alone made John groan again.

 

"Sherlock, I want you to fuck me, I want to feel you, all of you, deep inside me, now, please."

 

A deep, throaty sound escaped Sherlock when he lowered his open mouth to John's face. He brushed his eyebrow and temple with his lips, then he moved on, let his tongue caressing John's ear before he made his way downward, licking and nibbling at John's jaw and throat to finally bite at the point where neck and shoulder merged. With a snarl he dug his teeth in John's soft, warm skin and sucked hard. John bucked slightly at the unexpected touch, and as Sherlock went on sucking and licking he turned his head to give Sherlock more access. He accepted the invitation immediately and let his tongue and teeth go over John's throat before he slipped deeper and dedicated to his nipples. He sucked and nibbled on them until they glowed dark and hard.

 

Eventually he knelt between Johns legs and warmed some lubricant between his palms. He started with one finger at John's tight opening; his other hand was playing with his balls while John stretched against him, moaning lustfully. It didn't take long until he could push the second finger into him, and he moved carefully searchingly until he was confirmed by a loud gasp that he had found John's prostate.

 

"Oh fuck, Sherlock, I need you ... wanna feel you … your cock … sliding into me … now ... hard." John squirmed under him and Sherlock growled, he pulled his fingers out, before he was back over him. Then he pushed a pillow beneath him, carefully bending John's good leg over his arm and pressing slowly into him.

 

John gasped and tried to push off with his feet in order to feel Sherlock deeper. "Sherlock ... I .... ohhh ... yeah ... more ... harder ... deeper!" He couldn't say anymore, shoved his hands into the linens, clenching it tightly.

 

Sherlock took John's leg and put it over his shoulder, then he held him by the waist, lifted him up a little and pushed hard. John's head fell back, a cry escaped him. "Ahhhhh ... yeahhhh... harder ... Sherlock ... more!"

 

How much he would like to delay this, but not today, today there're no games, no teasing. John needs this hard and fast today, and he will give him what he needs. After a few strokes he realised that he himself wouldn't last long this time. His fingers dug into John's flesh, where he held him at his hips. John grabbed his cock, pumping in time with every thrust of Sherlock's cock, hard and deep, hitting John's prostate every time. With each thrust he declared: "Mine. John. You. Are. Mine."

 

That was it. John's free hand was clawing in the sheets again, his body was taut as a tendon, only his shoulders and his head touched the bed as the orgasm rolled over him. He cried out Sherlock's name, bucked and was shaken wildly, before everything went white. A moment later he could see again, just when Sherlock collapsed on him, breathing heavily.

 

Only gradually they both came back to full consciousness, Sherlock pulled cautiously back from John. Then they lay on the bed juxtaposed, John had turned onto his side so that they could look at each other. It was the first time that John had let go, without a plan, without orders, without rules. And the first time that Sherlock had taken the lead, claiming his newly discovered possession. It had been so incredibly intense.

 

John tenderly brushed a few curls from Sherlocks forehead, kissing him again and again, his face, his neck, his chest, his shoulders, whatever he could reach without moving too much. "I love you." Kiss. "I love you." Kiss. Kiss. "I love you." Kiss. So he continued, until finally Sherlock took John's face in his hands and shut his mouth with a long kiss.

 

 

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

 

**Epilogue**

 

John met with Mary at Angelo's. After she had been left alone so suddenly at their first meeting, he wanted to do better this time. To be honest, he had quite forgotten her at first. The shock finding Sherlock unconscious, then the hospital stay and the whole chaos of his feelings ... . But she wasn't resentful, and when she finally knew the whole story, she understood perfectly that John was occupied with other thoughts.

 

It was a nice evening, Angelo had outdone himself in cooking and John was happy that he could merely enjoy a normal meal with a perfectly normal human being. Also, he was amused to talk with Mary about their cases, she was an avid listener.

 

As they got the dessert John's phone rang and he rolled his eyes when he cast a glance on it.

 

"Something bad?" Mary asked a little worried.

 

"No," John was grinning now. "Only an underemployed, inquisitive and obviously jealous consulting detective who would like to join our table, if you don't mind."

 

Mary smiled in amusement. "But no, of course not. Quite the contrary, I very much want to meet the man who makes you smile like the sun."

 

John noticed that he blushed, but she was right. He looked around and finally he discovered Sherlock half hidden behind a room divider and nodded at him. Sherlock immediately got up, took his glass of wine and came to their table.

 

John presented them to each other: "Mary, may I introduce Sherlock to you; Sherlock, this is Mary." Pride crept into his voice. He was proud of both, his fantastic flatmate / partner / significant other (whatever, they have to clarify later), and on his wonderful new friend. And he watched contentedly how both shook hands.

 

Sherlock indicated a bow and watched Mary with his pervading gaze.  For a moment the time seemed to stand still, and then Sherlock's mouth twitched for a split second. If John hadn't known him so well, he probably wouldn't have seen it, but there wasn't much Sherlock could escape with when it comes to John. With a charming "Hello Mary" he shook her hand before he released it.

 

Mary normally had the gift of the gab, but now she was speechless for a moment. She had seen Sherlock already in the pub, that night she met John the first time, but at that time he was only a shadow of himself. Now, here, pierced by his inquiring gaze, that was something completely different.

 

Then she took herself together and gave him a bright smile. And Sherlock - smiled back. Whatever he had expected, whatever he had searched for in her eyes, her face, he seemed to have found it, because it was a real, genuine smile. Not the one he had reserved for John, of course, that smile he hadn't shown anyone else yet, and he would never do. But John realised that he had lifted his mask a little.

 

John let escape the breath he had been holding unconsciously. Yes, the chemistry between Sherlock and Mary was just right. There weren't many people who Sherlock accepted, maybe even liked, but John had been sure with Mary from the very beginning. Maybe because he himself had trusted her instantly.

 

Before he sat down Sherlock leaned down. John looked up in surprise, was there something else? But Sherlock merely pressed a kiss on his mouth, nothing special, just a quick hello, as was common among couples. Only that Sherlock had previously rejected any confidentiality, every holding hand, in public. With raised eyebrows, he looked at him, what was that up to?

 

"I had plenty of opportunity to watch the social behavior of couples tonight," Sherlock explained. "It seems to me perfectly reasonable and acceptable, if I give you a kiss in greeting." He sat down with an elegant sweep.

 

Mary grinned at him. "And it clarifies who belongs to whom."

 

Sherlock nodded, "Exactly."

 

Meanwhile, John wondered what others 'social behaviors among couples' Sherlock had probably seen yet and what he would transpose - and in what situations. He pulled such a comical face that Mary and Sherlock had to laugh spontaneously, and after a moment of amazement John joined in the laughter.

 

 

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this was the last chapter. Thank you for reading, for staying with me, even if my grammar is horrible some times. (I'm still working on that. ;)) I hope you enjoyed my story and I'm greatful for feedback.
> 
>  
> 
> Oh, a box for a comment, how convenient! Please, use it, write down your thoughts. I would be happy!


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